


The North Remembers

by HalfBloodDragon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dany is a Villain, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Most people live, Not everyone, Plotty, Slow Burn, The Tyrells deserve so much better than the Sept of Baelor, Theon Greyjoy Lives, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Time Travel Fix-It, but uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBloodDragon/pseuds/HalfBloodDragon
Summary: The Queen in the North remembers. It's too bad she's only thirteen and off on her way to marry Joffrey.No one listens to the ravings of the little Stark girl.No one except their ward."You can't throw a wolf into one end of a pond and a kraken into the other and hope to make no ripples."
Relationships: Spoilers - Relationship, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 220
Kudos: 559





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the lone traveller, standing strong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354225) by [bubblewrapstargirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl). 
  * Inspired by [so far from being free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707293) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> I'm infinitely indebted to the cleverness of the two fics that inspired this story.  
> I know notes by ravens exist, but humor me and pretend slightly longer letters do, too. It's an AU, right? ;)

Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, woke in her bedchambers. With the coronation yesterday, there was still plenty to do rebuilding the North. As she slid out of bed, she ran through the list of items left undone. Workers needed to be sent to Moat Cailin to shore up defenses, she needed to…

Her feet hadn't hit the ground.

Odd. Sansa stretched her legs, surprised that her bed was this big. She slid the rest of the way off the bed, then looked around in surprise. This was the room she'd lived in as a girl, not the chamber she'd been using as her own. Had she walked in her sleep? Unusual, to develop such a habit at her age.

A realization hit her and she looked down at her feet again. It… wasn't her body. It was a girl's, not a woman's. Desperately, she searched for a mirror. With shock, she realized that all her things were here. All her things from childhood, toys and dresses that had burned long ago.

Stifling a rising panic, she reached for the mirror she'd kept as a child. It was exactly where she'd left it. With even more confusion and panic, she looked. Though her face was warped and distorted, it was definitely her own.

Her own from when she was thirteen.

Sansa screamed.

Running feet pounded down the stone hall. Her door slammed open. "Sansa–" Catelyn Stark stood in the doorway, fright on her face as she stared at her daughter. "Heavens, child, what could be the matter?"

Sansa stared at her mother, her mother who had been dead for half a decade, who she hadn't seen for eight years. "Mother?" she whispered, feeling her whole body going numb with shock.

Catelyn smiled. "Yes, child. What is it?"

Sansa ran to her mother, hugging her tight. If this were a dream, it was the best one she'd ever had. Her mother felt so real and warm and– Sansa pinched herself. It hurt. But how could this not be a dream?

Squeezing her eyes shut, breathing in her mother’s scent, Sansa let herself hope; just this once. A blind, fool’s hope that her other life had been the dream, every horrible moment with Ramsay, every death she’d had to face. If the gods were good and this were the real one, she’d have time to plan, time to stop the King from coming north, to stop her father from becoming his Hand, to never set foot in the South as long as she lived.

She was a child. She had time.

Catelyn cooed reassuringly, petting her hair. "There, there, love, it was just a nightmare. I'll be down to visit you in King's Landing before you know it."

King's Landing.

Sansa jerked away. "I don't want to go."

Her mother laughed. "After all the fuss you made about becoming queen! About how beautiful Joffrey was, how gallant–"

 _Joffrey_.

Violently, Sansa shook her head, willing this to not be true. "I won't marry him. You can't make me, I won't go!"

"Sansa." Her mother looked sternly down at her. "This is a fine time to be pulling antics. You'll do as you're told, little lady, or you'll be made to!"

Sansa's head felt like it had been filled to bursting. If this was her chance to do things over, maybe the royal party hadn't arrived in Winterfell yet, maybe she had time to plan. She could find a way to keep Jon from going to the Wall, keep Bran from climbing the tower–

Septa Mordane rushed into the room, sweeping past Lady Catelyn. "Now, I've packed your dresses, but you need to make a decision about which one you want to wear in the carriage with the Queen. I think the red one, here, would be a bold choice."

"She's decided she doesn't want to go," Catelyn said to the septa, sounding amused.

Septa Mordane was horrified. " _Now?_ On today, of all days?!"

Sansa dreaded the answer. "What day is today?"

Mordane put her hands on her hips, glaring down at her. "The day you leave for King's Landing! Get dressed or they'll leave you behind!"

Still in her nightgown, Sansa bolted past and fled down the hallway.

She ran through Winterfell, hearing her mother's and septa's exasperated calls behind her. She kept running. Maybe if she acted badly enough they _would_ leave her behind. It was all she could hope for. Anything to keep her family together, to get one more moment with them.

Her feet had carried her to Bran's room. Slowly, she pushed the door open. There he lay, asleep in his bed. His direwolf perked an ear at Sansa before dropping back to sleep atop his feet.

Sansa's heart fell. She was too late. Too late to save Bran, too late to stop her betrothal, too late.

"Come to say goodbye?" She hadn't seen Robb, from his chair next to the door, but now he stood to greet her. At the sound of his voice, she instantly burst into tears, transported back to this same day as it had occurred eight years ago.

"Robb!" she cried, latching him into a hug. "Oh, Robb, you're not dead."

"Of course I'm not, silly," he laughed, hugging her back. "I heard you scream, earlier. Bad dream?"

"The worst," she said, her face pressed against his shirt, trying to memorize his smell, his feel, the sound of his laugh. "I dreamt that you'd gotten betrothed to a Frey girl and then broken it and the Freys all murdered you at Uncle Edmure's wedding."

"Well that's rightfully horrifying," Robb said. "But I'm alright. I'm here. No weddings, I promise."

"Promise me," she said, drawing back to fix him with a serious glare. "Promise me you won't break your betrothal to a Frey."

"I'll do no such thing!" he said, laughing again. "Sansa, you can't let dreams–"

"It wasn't a dream," she insisted. "Promise me, Robb."

He smiled his most patronizing smile at his little sister. "I'll be fine, Sansa. It's just nerves before your big trip."

But in the hallway, Sansa could hear her mother's voice calling for her. If Robb wasn’t going to listen, she had other siblings to warn.

Again, Sansa bolted down the hallway. Turning a corner, she ran smack into Jon.

"Sansa?" Jon said, grabbing her arms to steady her. "What are you running around for?"

"Jon!" Sansa beamed up at him. "Oh thank goodness, I was worried you'd already left!"

He let go of her arms, taking a step back. "And why would you be worried?"

"Because I need to talk to you!" she said. "I know of all my brothers, you'll believe me and help tell the others. We're all in danger, terrible danger! We have to convince Father not to go South–"

But Jon continued backing away, shaking his head at her. "I don't know what game you're playing at, Sansa. Why today, of all days?"

"What?" Sansa said, confused.

"Calling me 'brother,'" Jon replied. "Acting as if you like me."

"I do like you!" she said. "I do, I'm sorry I never said it earlier, I just–"

With a final shake of his head, Jon walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Sansa stood, still in her nightdress, wondering how she could have ruined her best chance at being believed so thoroughly. If only she'd been _nicer_ to Jon, if only–

But she hadn't been. She'd sowed distrust with him for her entire life. It was only fair that she reaped her due.

Squaring her shoulders, Sansa went in search of her final sibling.

"Arya!" Sansa called later, seeing her sister perched in a tree in the courtyard. "Arya, come here, I need your help!"

Arya stuck out her tongue. Dropping from the tree into the bushes, she vanished into the woods.

"What's this racket you've been making, Sansa?"

Her back to him, Sansa paused, letting the sound of her father's voice wash over her. By the time she'd been crowned, Sansa had thought that she'd forgotten what his voice sounded like. Yet hearing it again, she could never mistake it for anything else in the world.

Sansa turned to him. "Father, I–"

Ned Stark stood before her, furs draped around his shoulders and as strong and unmovable as the stone walls surrounding them. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight.

"You've upset your mother something fierce," he continued, as if nothing were wrong. "Go apologize, Sansa. You won't see her again for a long while, once we're in King's Landing."

"I don't want to go," Sansa whispered. "We can't. We'll all die down there. They'll cut off your head and–"

He pulled his daughter to him. "So that's what's worrying you. It's alright, love. I won't let them. The King won't let them. We're old friends, Robert and I."

Her face pressed against his tunic, Sansa shook her head. "He'll die. And then Joffrey will be king–"

"And you'll be his queen," her father said.

"And Joffrey will kill you! He's a bastard, he's–"

Ned clapped a hand over her mouth. "Watch what you say, little lady. He is Robert's son and they are guests in this house. You will give them your respect."

Tears welled in Sansa's eyes. How could he not see, how could she convince him?

"I know about Lyanna,” Sansa said. “I know about Jon and—”

Ned yanked her into the closest room. He slammed the door shut, yanking the bar across the door. He bent down to stare her in the eyes. “Who told you?” he demanded in a whisper, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Where did you hear that?”

 _Bran_ , but she couldn’t start with that. “The Three-Eyed Raven,” Sansa replied. “He saw what’s coming, he told me. We cannot go south!”

Ned straightened. “Children’s tales,” he said with relief.

“Then how do I know?” Sansa said, wanting to scream with frustration. “How do I know about Jon if it’s just a children’s tale?”

Her father grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what you overheard. But if you ever breathe word of this to a soul, I'll make sure you regret it every day for the rest of your life. You understand me?”

“Father, I—”

“Do you understand me?!”

Shakily, Sansa nodded.

Ned gave a nod in reply. “Good. That’s settled, then. Go and say your goodbyes. We leave in the hour.”

Sansa sat in the Godswood, tears streaming down her face. She'd failed. The gods had given her one chance to save her family and she'd failed all of them.

Whatever horrors she'd lived before, this was certainly the nightmare. Now she would have to watch them die all over again.

Theon strode around the corner, a sauntering spring in his step. "Alright. You've yelled at everyone else. Figured it's my turn." He plopped down next to her. "What'll it be this time? More grumpkins to scare me with?"

A flash of resolve tore through her. She was done looking sane. Sansa grabbed Theon's hands, making sure he listened. "They're going to kill Father. He's going to discover all Cersei's children are the Kingslayer's bastards and after they kill King Robert, they'll kill Father, too."

A crooked grin stretched across Theon's face. "Who will?"

"The Lannisters," Sansa said, desperate to get it all out. "Then the North declares independence and Robb marches South to kill them for what they did."

"Sansa, no one's done anything yet–"

"Focus, Theon!" she snapped. In the distance, she could hear her mother calling for her. "Don't you dare forget a word."

He focused. "Go on."

"Robb agrees to marry a Frey girl for his army. Then he marries someone else, instead, and the Freys and Boltons kill him, Mother, his wife and unborn child, at Edmure Tully's wedding."

"Tully?" Theon recoiled. "When did the Tullys get into all this?"

Sansa took a moment to think, knowing she was getting it all out of order. If only she'd had time, if only she could have prepared– No. It was what it was. She had to make the most of it.

"The important thing," Sansa said, finally calm. "Is that Robb sends you to Pyke, to your father, to gather support."

Theon's eyes lit up.

"You betray Robb."

Theon yanked away. "I would never–!"

"It doesn't matter!" Sansa said, without an ounce of accusation. "You've already done it! You need to know–"

"How dare you," Theon sneered down at her. "Robb trusts me and I–"

"AND YOU FAIL!" Sansa yelled. "You take Winterfell, kill Ser Roderick, kill two boys instead of Bran and Rickon, and for nothing! You end up captured by Ramsay Bolton – Ramsay Snow – the only person more sadistic than Joffrey. He kills Rickon – for sport. He mutilates you, Theon," Sansa said, her heart breaking for the Theon she left behind. Reek, who had risked his life to save her, to atone for his many sins. Seeing Theon staring down at her in disgust was a thousand times worse than Jon. His dislike she had well-earned. Theon had been her friend, her shield, the only one she depended on during the worst parts of her life.

Sansa looked away, unable to keep the tears from falling. "The Night King will come for all of us. But not until there's no one left standing to face him."

Her mother rounded the corner, sighing with exasperation at the sight of her daughter. " _There_ you are, you willful child! They'll leave any minute! You can't keep the Queen waiting!"

Theon took another step backward, his face clouded with distrust.

"Go," Sansa said to him, empty of all her emotion. "I doubt I'll see you again in this lifetime."

With that ominous farewell, Theon went.

Sansa stared out the window of the carriage, trying to memorize every crag and hillock and mountain of her homeland. Thankfully, Cersei had appreciated her silence, far preferring to chatter with her own children and leave the strange Stark girl to her sulking.

The strange Stark girl didn't have time to talk – she had to plan. Every faded memory of this time was critical. There were few changes she could affect (as this morning with her family had made abundantly clear) and she had to be ready and waiting for each and every one.

"Are you going to miss your home?" Princess Myrcella asked, her perfect golden ringlets bouncing as the carriage jolted against a rock. She had died of poison, that perfect face forever hidden beneath a shroud.

Sansa smiled. "Very much."

The carriages stopped for the night at an inn and everyone was duly ready to stretch their legs. The moment Sansa set foot out of the carriage, a wave of dread washed over her. She remembered this inn. Why did she remember a single inn…?

"Sansa!" Arya yelled as she jumped down from her horse. In each hand was a leash. Straining at the end of each leash – was a young direwolf. "I won't take care of Lady for another second, you spoiled brat! Just because the Queen didn't want fur on her–"

Sansa ran to her, throwing herself in the mud to wrap her arms around her wolf. "Lady!" she cried, burying her face in her fur. "Oh, Lady, how I've missed you!"

"Don't be dramatic," Arya said, rolling her eyes. "It's only been a few hours."

A wet tongue licked the side of Sansa's face. Giggles rose in her, rose and threatened to never stop.

"Sansa!" Septa Mordane said with a gasp. "Your dress, girl! It's covered in mud! If your mother–"

"Hang mud," Sansa said, not removing her arms from around her wolf. She knew why she remembered this inn, now. And Sansa knew one thing more – neither Stark girl was going to lose her wolf; not if she had anything to say about it.

"Insolent girl!" the Septa cried.

Before she could continue, could punish Sansa and ruin all her plans before they had even begun, Sansa stood, sweeping a curtsey. "My apologies, Septa. I'll make sure it does not happen again."

Her Septa gave a sniff. "Be sure that you do." Then her eyes caught something across the courtyard. "Stupid girl, now your betrothed will see you like this! Shameful!"

Sansa turned. Joffrey. Even now, he was dismounting from his horse, walking toward her with that insolent smirk she wanted to knock off his face.

But the Sansa he knew didn't hate him yet. She adored him, simpering at his every word. Should she be rude? Drive him away, make him hate her?

"Sansa!" Joffrey called, striding over to her. Arya had long since run off. As he approached, he settled his hand atop the pommel of his sword. "Walk with me, my lady."

No. There was always time later to make him hate her. With her father still alive, she needed fear no little boy.

"Thank you, my lord, for the offer," Sansa said, dropping into a curtsey. "But I told my sister I'd play with her when we stopped for the night."

"That's alright," Joffrey replied. "I'll join you."

Sansa walked with him along the riverbank, her unease growing. In her last life, this had been her first mistake; now, it was her first test. Two direwolves and the life of a butcher’s boy hung in the balance.

Joffrey offered her wine and it tasted like ash in her mouth. Up ahead, Arya and the butcher's boy whacked at each other with sticks. The prince smiled at Sansa. “Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.”

He strode forward, his cocky swagger in full force. Joffrey hassled them, pressing the boy further, trying to goad him into a fight. Sansa waited. Joffrey was unstable, volatile, and she'd rarely had success controlling him, even at the best of times. She had to be perfect.

Joffrey drew his sword. "Pick up your sword, Butcher's Boy, let's see how good you are."

"Don't waste your time, my prince," Sansa said, grabbing the stick from Arya's hands. "Of course a stupid butcher's boy can't fight you properly. Fight me."

Joffrey ignored her, pressing his sword further into the boy's face. Sansa whacked Joffrey in the arm.

Horrified, he spun to face her. A growing anger lurked behind his eyes. "You hit me. Why did you hit me?"

"Because you were being dull," Sansa said. She raised her stick back into the air, facing Joffrey down. Like every Northerner, she'd received training by Jon and Brienne before the Long Night. Unlike the rest, she'd skipped most of her lessons to ensure the people were fed and clothed. Even the boy Joffrey would trounce her, if he tried, but Sansa had to risk it. With a playful smile, she rapped his sword with her stick. "Show me how it's done."

"My lady," Joffrey said, advancing with a wicked gleam. "I had no idea the brutal arts intrigued you."

"Endlessly," Sansa replied. Staring at Arya's confused gaze, Sansa flicked her eyes, hoping she'd catch her meaning.

Scooting past, Arya grabbed the butcher boy’s arm, pulling him away down the banks of the river. Nymeria loped happily after.

Change. It hadn't been much, but to Sansa, it meant the world. Every day in King's Landing, she stared down at Lady and Nymeria and smiled. Her father might not listen to her, her siblings might all believe her to be crazy, but nothing was written in stone. Not yet.

Sansa knew little enough of Jon's exploits, with absolutely no timeline to make sense of them, or to give him rational bits in pieces so that he wouldn't get overwhelmed. For a man destined to live twice, she figured he'd manage the only option left to her: tell him everything he needed and hope it helped when he needed it.

_To my dear brother Jon,_

_I know you won't believe me, no matter what I say, so all I ask is that you remember this letter, thinking back on its eccentricities occasionally. One day, they will make sense._

_Fire and dragonglass kill wights. You'll find some up north, but there's plenty on Dragonstone when we need it later. Valyrian steel kills White Walkers._

_Oh, and congratulations on becoming Lord Commander. Our father would have been so proud._

_Uncle Benjen is lost to the Far North. There's nothing you can do about it, Jon. I know it hurts and I know you miss him, but he is not your priority. He cannot be._

_Mance Rayder is collecting a Wildling army, the biggest the North has ever seen. We'll need them to face the Long Night. Tormund Giantsbane is dependable and will grow to call you brother. If you let them into the North, the Night's Watch will kill you. There are ways you can come back from this death, but the events preceding it are too precarious for you to risk it blindly._

_I'm sorry for every harsh word I've ever said, to you and behind your back. I wish I'd learned my errors early enough to apologize to your face, but I was a stupid, stupid girl and I beg your forgiveness. I love you, dearest brother. Take care of yourself._

_Please don't show this letter to anyone. Memorize it and burn it, if you can. Write frequently and I can give more helpful advice._

_Your sister,_

_Sansa_

_P.S. If I'm acting too nicely for you to believe it's me, I can always insult you until you do. Please don't make me._

Her other important act came in the form of a theft. Stealing her father's signet ring, she forged his signature on the missive to ensure it went unquestioned, even by her mother. This letter was far simpler than the one she had written to Jon. Addressed to Howland Reed, it simply invited his children, Jojen and Meera, to stay at Winterfell as companions to Bran Stark. Sansa had no idea what assistance a young Bran required on his quest to become the Three-Eyed Raven – or if such a quest was still necessary, with all the knowledge the old Bran had told to her. Regardless, if he needed any help, the Reeds would be the ones to assist him.

Her father set a package on the table. "That's for you, love."

Slowly, Sansa opened the wrapping.

"The same dollmaker makes all of Princess Myrcella's toys," Ned said. At her silence, he continued, "Don't you like it?"

When Sansa looked up at her father, it was with tears in her eyes. "I love it. Thank you, Father."

She'd remember his answering smile until the day she died.

Her letters from Winterfell were all to be expected, tales of Bran waking up, Rickon throwing tantrums, and spats among neighboring lords. Some of them Sansa remembered almost word-for-word from reading them the first time around. It gave her a strange sense of nostalgia – coupled with dread. Had she changed so little? Was all doomed to be the same, just with her direwolf to suffer alongside her and likely die at Lannister hands?

A single postscript at the end of one of Robb's letters made her pause.

_What did you say to Theon? He's been skittish as a cat ever since you left. One moment, he leaps into action at a mere suggestion from me, the next he rants and blusters and thwarts my every command. I'd have no idea that it had anything to do with you, if any mention of your name didn't make him turn pale as a sheet and stalk away. Write to him, please, as he obviously won't write to you. Perhaps he won't read it, but for his sake, I would hope you'd try._

Sansa sat staring at the letters formed in her eldest brother's hand. There it was, another sign of change. She had two direwolves and a jumpy Greyjoy. What great plots could be cast from these?

Nothing. A great, fat nothing. She'd been working on Baelish, dropping hints about how _grateful_ they'd be for help, how _quickly_ they'd need to betroth her away again from the awful Joffrey, how Mother always lamented that there weren't any good men from the Riverlands to give her daughters to–

"Did you know I was raised in the Riverlands, Lady Sansa?" Baelish said, with that ever-present smile.

"Oh!" Sansa feigned ignorance flawlessly. "I had no idea. What house?"

"Your mother's. I was a ward among the Tullys, raised like family."

"How intriguing! Tell me all about it, Lord Baelish."

"Please, call me Petyr."

She giggled. "Petyr. But it sounds so informal!"

He smiled, the implied, _That's the idea_ , not escaping her for a moment. Good. Precisely what she wanted.

It was good, but… Not good enough. She'd betroth herself to Baelish in a heartbeat if it would save her father. But Baelish was far too cavalier with other people's chaos and far too little risking of his own. If he acted, it would be well after Ned died, well past any chance for Sansa to have use of him. Still, she kept him around, on as short a lead as she could manage. King's Landing left her with few tools and Baelish would be her chief instrument. Unwieldy though he was, at least Sansa knew his steps before he made them and could make herself too slippery a fish for him to ever catch.

Afterall, she had learned from the best.

Theon sat in the Great Hall, breaking his fast with Robb, Rickon and Bran. It had felt like an odd sort of male family, these last few weeks after Catelyn had left.

Maester Luwin stepped forward, depositing a stack of letters in Robb's hand. Robb flipped through them, sorting them to read later. One, a particularly slim one, caught his eye, and he held it up for closer examination. With one last frown at it, he passed the letter to Theon, face-down.

"Me?" Theon said with a laugh. "Now who could be writing to this poor ward?" He picked the letter up, wiggling the seal for Robb to see. "A wolf, no less. What does your father write that he can't want you to hear, hmm?"

Theon flipped the letter over, intending to slit it with a well-practiced flick of his knife. The writing on the front stopped him cold. To Theon Greyjoy. From Sansa Stark.

Robb's eyes never left him. With a growl, Theon slit it open, certain to not let anything seem amiss. His eyes scanned the words warily.

_Theon,_

_I am sorry for how we parted. I was too upset to hold my tongue and laid more on you than any man should bear._

_With the way things are going here in King's Landing, I shouldn't have bothered. They'll execute Father anyway, call it mercy, and force me to watch, just as before. Perhaps for all my troubles, I'll simply be executed beside him._

_Who can tell?_

_Dismiss these as the ramblings of a morbid child, as my father most certainly does._

_I wish you well,_

_Sansa_

Theon lowered the letter with shaking hands. He'd long forgotten to hide his reaction. She spoke like a woman possessed by a devil.

"Robb," Theon started tentatively. "Is there any news about your father?"

"The Tourney for the Hand caused some excitement, last I heard," Robb replied, still watching his friend. "Nothing that was his fault, or put him in danger. Why?"

Theon nodded, still failing to make sense of it all. "And Sansa? What is she like in her letters to you?"

"Here, I've got one in front of me," Robb said, passing it over.

_My dearest Robb,_

_Things have been going splendidly since last I wrote. The queen grows more fond of me by the day, and even brought in lemon cakes - just because I'd said I liked them!_

He skimmed the rest of the letter, hoping for any sign of the terrifying girl he'd had glimpses of, but could decipher no code in her talk of weather and fashions and courtly ladies.

Theon sat back, frowning.

"Was yours not like that?" Robb reached a hand across the table. "Here, let me see."

Abruptly, Theon stuffed it away. Something was going on with Sansa and for some reason, it had only been directed at him. He wasn't about to change that until he knew _why._

An idea started to form. "That day she left for King's Landing, when she was causing all the fuss," Theon said, successfully diverting from his own letter. "What did she say to you?"

Robb laughed. "She was out of her mind, frantic about leaving home. I can't hold anything she said then against her, can I? Raving of bloody weddings and the Freys. I can't hardly remember a word of it. You?"

Clenching his jaw, Theon looked away. "No, nor I." _All of it. Every word, Sansa. Just like you asked me to. Why in seven hells did you ask me to?_

All too soon, Theon got his worst fears confirmed.

Robb sat in the solar, sorting through the many letters he had received. The King was dead. Ned Stark, Hand of the King, was imprisoned for treason.

And Sansa had warned Theon of all of it.

"Look at this!" Robb said, holding up a letter. He broke from his dour mood for a bit of sarcasm. "From Sansa. I'll bet Cersei even let her hold the pen."

"What does it say, Robb?" Theon asked. Dread curled around his throat, closing it tight. These tidings would be the end of her saccharine masquerade, he was sure of it.

_Robb,_

_I write to you with a heavy heart. Our good king Robert is dead, killed from wounds he took in a boar hunt. Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert’s brothers against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne._

_The Lannisters are treating me very well and provide me with every comfort. I beg you and Theon: come to King’s Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey and prevent any strife between the great houses of Lannister and Stark._

Robb poured over the letter, scathing each insipid line, but Theon didn't hear a word. _I beg you and Theon_. Joffrey didn't need Theon's loyalty. In fact, he doubted a Greyjoy ward would even be allowed into the throne room to swear it.

He ran his fingers over the creased and crumpled letter she had sent him before, knowing its words by heart.

"They're going to kill your father, Robb," Theon said, his tongue feeling like it was driven not by thought, but by leaden cogs and gears. "They're going to call it mercy and force Sansa to watch."

Robb grabbed Theon by his collar, slamming him against the wall. "Don't say that! Don't you say that!"

Theon said nothing. Robb drooped, letting go of him to lean over the desk, hiding his tears. "There's still a chance. He can take the Black; they can send him to the Wall. Father would do it. For us. He'd have to."

"They won't let him. Joffrey won't let him. He's a sadistic bastard and your father will pay for it with his life."

Robb dropped his head into his hands. "What choice do I possibly have?"

"Summon the banners. March for King's Landing. Maybe you'll get there in time to stop it."

Robb looked up at that. Theon ignored the red rim around his eyes. "You think I could stop them?"

Theon thought back on Sansa's words, so eerily coming true. _Perhaps for all my troubles, I'll simply be executed beside him._ "No. I don't think you'll stop them. But you have to try."

Waiting down in his cell, Baelish slipped Ned a note. It was unsigned and Ned didn't trust the man, that it came from Sansa, but the note simply read: _Die with honor. They'll kill you anyway. Taking the Black was never an option. All seven of your children love you and will never stop fighting for you – and for each other. The North Remembers._

Seven? Ned paused. There were only five Stark children, six if you included Jon. Where in the gods' names did–

Theon. Ned chuckled, rereading the note. If this was from Sansa, it was more than he deserved for all the times he hadn't listened, had thought her still a child and treated her like one.

He gave a nod to Baelish. With a nod in reply, Baelish slithered back into the shadows and out of sight.

Sansa rubbed tears from her eyes, not ready to lose her father a _second_ time. It still felt like only yesterday, she'd watched him killed the first time around.

"Letters for you, my lady," the servant said, delivering the platter.

Sansa couldn't manage a reply. The servant set down the dish and left the girl to her mourning.

Eventually, with nothing better to occupy herself, Sansa rifled through them. Too many were from nobles she knew wanted nothing but juicy gossip, others that wanted to pity her and bemoan her awful fate. Sansa had no use for either. Tidings that the North was on the move had already reached her, so another third fell into that useless pile.

One letter remained. Oddly, it was unsigned and unsealed. Most importantly, she couldn't remember receiving such a letter in her previous life. With curiosity tingling at her fingertips, she opened it.

_Send me more morbid ramblings. The twins approach._

For the first time in a long time, Sansa smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tomaday <3

Sansa's letter had been explicit: Robb had to marry the Frey girl – immediately. When later tragedies occurred, Robb would break his betrothal in his grief. This was the only thing that mattered, Sansa kept stressing. Offend the Freys and the Starks lost the war and everyone died. Period. Nothing else mattered.

Theon wondered who was included in 'everyone' and wished Sansa had seen fit to say. Was it because he died there? It couldn't be – he hadn't had a chance to betray anyone yet. Ha. What a cosmic joke his life consisted of, thanks to Sansa and his inability to dismiss her as crazy. As long as he hadn't had a chance to betray Robb, Theon wasn't in danger of dying. After that, he had Ramsay Snow and mutilation to look forward to. Charming.

There, at least, he was glad Sansa had spared him the details. What had she become – some sort of priestess? He'd heard of Red Women seeing things in the flames, but this felt different. It felt personal.

When Catelyn delivered the offer from the Freys, that Robb would marry a Frey girl of his choice and Arya would marry a Frey son, Theon braced himself. This was it, according to Sansa. If he trusted her at all – which he wasn't yet sure he did – everything hung on this.

Catelyn had long left the tent, but Robb was still fuming. "I'm to be bartered, sold like prime meat at a butcher's stall! For crossing a river and some bannermen!"

Theon kicked his legs up on the war table. "Why don't you make them a counteroffer? They won't let you off the meat hook, not when they can get a Frey ruling Winterfell, that's for sure. But you could save Arya if you offer to take a wife for yourself right away. Marry her when you reach Riverrun. Could even be a proper ceremony, that way."

"I don't have time for a marriage!" Robb fumed, pounding his fist against the table. "And to a Frey–"

"You'll manage," Theon said, not adding that if Sansa were right, Ned would be dead soon and Robb would get all the time in the world. "I'll bet there's at least one pretty Frey girl and they gave you your pick."

"No." Robb stared down at Theon, chips of ice in his eyes. "I won't manage marrying a girl I've never seen, never spoken to–"

"So take her with you!" Theon blurted back. "Talk as you ride! A whole army can protect one measly girl, can't it? What you _won't_ manage is breaking this betrothal, Robb. If you see some other pretty piece of meat while you're camped further on, her bannermen will hear of it. And then her father will hear, and suddenly, they'll all be Lannister bannermen."

"I'm not some bloody savage like you, Theon," Robb snarled. "I can keep it in my pants. A pretty piece of meat isn't going to lose us the war."

"Can you?" Theon retorted, growing heated. "When you hear your father's dead, and your sister next to him, but before they let her die, Joffrey–"

"ENOUGH!"

Robb stormed past, more furious than Theon had ever seen him. He paused at the exit of the tent. "Take the Frey bitch with us. I make no promises about Riverrun."

The tent flap drifted shut behind him. Theon wondered if this counted as a success at all. While Sansa had apparently discovered some way to get letters out without interception, Theon had no way to ensure his could do the same.

_Loveliest Sansa,_

_I know what a hard time you've been having, what with your awful father declared a traitor! I figured some news from home might cheer you up._

_The twins visited yesterday, and while they were as dreary and offensive as ever, they introduced me to their sister, who seems as lovely as can be. Mother and I talk of nothing but marrying her to brother Borris as soon as possible, but Borris will hear nothing of it. At least she's staying with us for the time being. I'm hopeful we can talk them into visiting that fishpond by your garden, that your mother always loved. Maybe there we'll have another chance._

_Hopefully, that dreadful event you mentioned hasn't come to pass. Hopefully, this was enough to distract you from it for a bit, but please tell me what you need to distract you better in the future._

_Until then,_

_Your rambling friend,_

_Winafrid Manderly_

Sansa had to smile. Wynafryd wouldn't spell her name wrong; Theon was far cleverer than she'd ever given him credit. Suddenly, she was glad he had been the one who listened to her speeches of doom. No matter how many times she would have told Robb, Sansa was fairly sure he'd have gone off and married that same nurse every single time. Even the little bit Theon had managed sounded like a miracle.

_Dear Winafrid,_ Sansa found herself immediately penning a reply. _That is simply wonderful news! I do hope Borris comes around, but it sounds like you're trying everything you can. If you stumble across a_ –

Nurse was too specific. Only places with wounded had nurses. Sansa trusted Baelish to get her letters out but not to keep from reading them, himself. If the gods were good, he'd underestimate her like everyone else, and never even try cracking the code. A code was a small price to pay, especially when Theon was clever.

\-- _girl in your neighborhood named Talisa Maegyr, keep Borris away from her! I've heard she's an insufferable flirt and is not to be trusted, especially around a man so stupid. If only you could simply ship her off to somewhere else, to make sure she was never seen again!_

_If you're worried about planning any of the dinner parties coming up, trust your brother. He's got quite a head for parties, actually. And the table settings – divine! That color he picked for the tablecloth, for example. I was worried it would be too green, but when all the embroidery was done, it looked bold and triumphant!_

_Write often. I live to hear from you._

_Your faithful friend,_

_Sansa_

Rereading the letter for the third time, Theon couldn't help but smile. He wasn't worried about dinner parties… but he was immensely worried about battles. If Sansa's code was to be trusted, he had nothing to fear. Apparently, Robb wasn't such a green commander after all. Delightful news. No wonder Sansa was so concerned about her brother's love life; if they could get Robb out of his own way, it sounded like the Starks stood a chance of… actually winning.

He had scoured the camps, feeling like an idiot, asking anyone if they knew a Talisa Maegyr. Until, finally, one of the Karstark boys pointed to the medical tent.

With a nod, Theon ducked inside.

There she was, a vision of loveliness and smiling at a man, even as she stitched up a hole in his guts.

"Talisa Maegyr?" Theon asked, and the lady jumped.

"Yes?" she said, wiping her bloody hands on her smock. "Who's asking?"

It took Theon a moment to remember how to speak. This was it; proof Sansa wasn't crazy. There was no way she'd met this lady before, no way she'd known her name. And yet…

"Theon Greyjoy," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll give you fifty gold dragons to leave this camp by the morning."

"Fifty!" Picking up her skirts, she marched around the cots to lift her nose at him. "Is this a joke? I came to help, not to be bought and sold–"

"You're an excellent nurse, all the men say so," Theon said, assuming her pretty enough for them to say it, regardless. "But two of the highborn lads have… had a disagreement, of sorts. They're liable to start up again at the slightest provocation. Best we remove the issue before it comes to it."

Talisa sniffed. "I've dealt with men before. I'll deal with them again. I'm not a child, Theon Greyjoy."

He smiled. "I'm sure you have. It's not you I'm worried about. They're likely to misbehave and your lovely King in the North can't afford to punish them. _And_ he can't afford to be seen _not_ punishing them. Do you catch my meaning?"

Talisa looked away. "Yes," she said in a small voice. "I'll go. You don't have to–"

But Theon had already plopped the purse into her hands. "If you don't have anywhere to go, Dacey Mormont is heading back to Bear Island, to resupply. She'd be a good escort on the road and I'm sure the Mormonts would be lucky to have you."

Talisa gave him a smile he didn't deserve, meddling to make sure a man he loved like a brother would never find true happiness. Meeting her here, Theon knew without a doubt that Robb would have twisted himself into knots to be with her. She was nothing short of lovely.

"You're a good man, Theon Greyjoy," Talisa said, as she left the tent.

He'd been avoiding the obvious for as long as he could. If Sansa had known about Talisa, didn't that mean there was a chance she'd been right about _him_? A traitor, a murder, a child-slayer?

"No," he whispered, though whether in reply to Talisa or to his own musings, he couldn't say. "I'm not."

As they relaxed with a bottle of ale in Robb's tent the next night, Theon had just finished extolling the many merits of Roz when Robb turned to Theon with a little gleam in his eyes. "Have you seen that pretty nurse? The one with the black hair and soulful eyes?"

Theon swallowed. By the gods, had he already been too late? "Talisa?" he said, trying to sound casual. "Yeah, she was an alright lay. I've had better, though not often since we hit the road. Did you know, she makes this delightful little sound when–"

"Stop," Robb said, turning green. "Nevermind."

The tent flap pushed open. Rosalin Frey stood there, with her pale hair shining and her pretty face pinched in timidity. "I'm so sorry, my lords. I didn't mean to intrude–"

Theon stood, clapping Rosalin on the back as he passed. "This old sod was getting sick of me, anyway. See if you can't cheer him up, will you?"

The night air stung against his face as he stepped outside, bringing the first bite of winter on the wind. Theon hugged himself to keep warm, nodding to Robb's guards as he passed. He needed another letter from Sansa. Needed it badly. Whatever future the two of them were threading, it was far too narrow a one for his liking.


	3. Chapter 3

Her father was dead.

Sansa sat staring out the window of her chambers, feeling nothing. Her only important task and she'd failed. Next would be Ser Roderick, Maester Luwin, then Robb, his wife, her mother, Rickon–

When she'd opened her eyes at Winterfell, she'd felt nothing but hope, elation at another chance to save her family. Now she knew this for what it was – torture. The gods had seen fit to punish Sansa for all her past crimes, her prides and slights. _I was a girl!_ she tried pleading with them. _A stupid, stupid girl. I've done everything I could. I was nice to Jon this time around, I even kept Arya's wolf. Please, make this stop. Take me back to a world where they're already dead. Where I don't have to watch them suffer a second time._

"Oh, look, my lady!" the serving girl said from the other end of the room. Sansa barely flicked her eyes to the woman, seeing her brandishing a letter. "Your little friend from home wrote you. Her news always cheers you right up."

"Go away," Sansa replied.

"My lady…" the servant continued.

At Sansa's feet, her direwolf reared her head, letting loose a low growl.

With a bow, the servant left.

Sansa kept staring out the window. Everything was meaningless, time an abstract concept. An hour later, or five, or perhaps a minute, Sansa mechanically reached for the letter.

_Sansa,_

_I'm so sorry. Here I've been talking about me all these times when you're the one who needs comforting. How are you? Have you made friends at King's Landing? Is there anything I can do to help?_

_Winafrid_

Sansa closed her eyes, feeling tears spill from them. She'd sworn not to cry this time, sworn it wouldn't affect her – but that would be an injustice to her father. She let her tears fall freely, not caring that they blotted the page.

She had sworn off caring, had sworn off interfering to change her family's fate and one letter from Theon drew it out of her like a habit she couldn't break. Perhaps there was still – hope was too strong a word – a _chance_ that someone, even if not a Stark, could survive their intended doom. If that chance existed, wasn't it Sansa's duty to try?

_Winafrid,_

_I am as well as can be expected. If you ask how I am, I remember talk of the Umbers, or one of the other Northern families, taking in a ward. I heard he suffered greatly at their hands, with regular beatings and spite from all who surrounded him. How glad I am not to be in his place! The Lannisters treat me like family already – and I have my beloved Joffrey to sustain me._

_I'd much rather talk about you. Your ball I used to enjoy so much every year is coming up! That party was always so exquisite and Borris such a fine dancer. I'd be careful, though. If that fine knight we all swooned over last time comes to the ball, be careful not to let your mother send him away! It'd be a fine thing, finally capturing a prize like that for you to flirt with, only for your mother to ruin everything._

_She'd do it to protect her girls, of course, but you obviously don't need protecting and your sister is so wild, it's as if no one knows where she is, until she turns up safe and sound!_

_Tell me all about the knight when he arrives and I shall imagine myself in your happy shoes, dancing the evening away._

_Your ever-grateful friend,_

_Sansa_

Theon read her letter, stilling his shaking hands to keep from crushing it. Her story of the northern ward was so obvious that he worried a spy could have cracked it. _He_ was that ward. The Starks had never beaten him (not when he hadn't deserved it) and the only spite he received was from Lady Catelyn, which was a miracle he'd gotten as little as he had.

 _Sansa_ was being beaten regularly. _Sansa_ was surrounded by nothing but spite. _Sansa_ was being treated as an enemy to the Lannister family, and he'd bet his best knife that Joffrey was the worst of all of them. She'd called Ramsay Snow, Theon's own future mutilator, 'the only one more sadistic than Joffrey.' That didn't sound like Joffrey was much beloved.

His hand holding the letter clenched into a fist. Theon had to force his fingers to let go, to keep pouring over her words, gently smoothing out the creases he'd made.

The latter half, the part addressed to his own situation, made less sense. In a cunning victory in their last battle, Robb had captured Jaime Lannister. Was he the knight Sansa to which Sansa referred? Catelyn certainly disliked him well enough and Sansa's use of the word 'captured' seemed too specific. Though Theon wrinkled his nose at the idea that anyone would swoon over the Kingslayer. But what plot from Catelyn was Sansa warning him about?

Regardless, he could only wait. Her other 'morbid ramblings' had made sense in time; this likely would, too.

The rest of the letter had a small morsel of good news he'd been able to draw – Arya was missing, but Sansa thought her sister would turn up safe and sound. Although Sansa's insistence that she herself didn't need protecting was nonsensical. She was suffering as dearly as anyone Theon had ever heard. Of course she needed protecting.

Catelyn's voice, drifting through the walls of the command tent he was standing outside, drew Theon's focus. “I don't trust Lord Greyjoy because he is not trustworthy! Your father had to go to war to end his rebellion!"

Theon grimaced. Catelyn had never liked him, always despised his family, but to outright reject his reasonable proposal to rally support from Balon Greyjoy… it defied sense.

"Yes," Robb replied, ever the reasonable one. "And now I'm the one rebelling against the throne. Before me, it was Father. You married one rebel and mothered another."

"I mothered more than just rebels." Theon could barely hear Catelyn whispering through the walls of the tent. "A fact you seem to have forgotten."

Robb sighed. "If I trade the Kingslayer for two girls, my bannermen will string me up by my feet."

"You want to leave Sansa in the queen's hands? And Arya! I haven't heard a word about Arya. What are we fighting for, if not for them?"

"It's more complicated than that, you know it is!" Robb roared.

Theon had heard enough. He headed to his own tent, readying his bags and planning out the supplies he'd need to take with him for his voyage to the Iron Islands. No matter what Catelyn said, Robb favored his plan, and with good reason.

Suddenly, Theon stopped. Sansa's letters making sense were always bad news. Catelyn would free the Kingslayer. She'd free him on a promise of safety for her girls and steal Robb's most valuable prize. And what could Robb do – punish his own mother? He'd have a mutiny by dawn.

Another, more horrifying realization stabbed Theon deeper than a sword. He dropped to his cot, his body numb. Sansa's first words to him echoed in his head, running through his ears until he thought he'd go crazy with her voice.

_Robb sends you to Pyke, to your father, to gather support._

_You betray Robb._

_And you fail._

Robb stopped by, wishing him luck with the Iron Islanders or some sort, but Theon didn't hear a word. Mutely, he nodded. Robb clapped him on the shoulder and left.

_You fail. You fail. You fail._

Theon buried his face in his hands, trying to hide from the truth of it. He hadn’t seen his father since he’d been younger than Bran; he barely remembered what the man looked like. Of _course_ he’d fail. He still couldn’t believe he’d betray Robb; Theon had sworn to him as a brother. A niggling doubt in the back of his brain said that if that were true, wouldn’t Theon’s only stronger pull be from his blood relatives, his actual family?

It might.

Theon flinched from the thought, the weakness that he knew he had. It’d been why he’d suggested the plan in the first place, hadn’t it? To prove himself loyal to Robb _and_ a true Greyjoy? What would he do if he couldn’t have both?

He didn’t know. And that was terrifying.

Finally, Theon looked up from his hands. Robb had left a purse behind, for purchasing his passage to Pyke and any supplies he might need. Looking at the sack of gold, an idea started to form. What if he didn’t… go to Pyke?

A grin spread across his face, growing more cocky by the second. Grabbing a quill and parchment, he scrawled a quick note.

_Robb,_

_My father can go sod himself. I’m off to King’s Landing to rescue your sister. Don’t do anything stupid (like letting your mother free the Kingslayer) while I’m gone._

_Theon_

It wasn’t too far a ride to the river, and then a quick jaunt by ship down the east coast to the capital. He’d be back before Robb knew it.

It was a good thing he’d already packed. Slipping out of his tent, Theon passed the note to Robb’s squire, saying not to bother His Grace with it until the morning. Saddling his horse, he rode off from camp in quite the wrong direction from Pyke entirely, whistling a happy tune.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canonical assault and attempted rape.
> 
> I wish I could take credit for the brilliant idea of Theon heading to King's Landing instead of Pyke, but I was inspired by So Far from being Free who was in turn inspired by The (Conquered) Hero. So many brilliant AU fics, guys. I'm just honored you're here reading this one. ;)

Sansa stood at the shore with the Lannisters, watching the boat with little Myrcella on it sail into the distance. Faintly, she wondered if anyone here would ever see the girl again. Likely not. Myrcella was doomed to be yet another innocent Sansa had failed on her quest to build a better world this time around. She tried to content herself with reminders that Myrcella was not a Stark, was a bastard child born of incest to a madwoman who would see the world burn. All Sansa could feel was pity for the girl. Despite her family, Myrcella had a kind heart.

In the distance, a wolf howled. Sansa prayed that it was Lady. From her previous life, she remembered what had happened to Grey Wind when you left a wolf pinned up inside. She knew that when Robb had started winning battles, Joffrey would beat her for it, and she didn't think a direwolf would long survive that cruelty. So Sansa had set Lady into the woods, knowing the Lannisters would otherwise have long since killed her. If only Sansa could be sure of getting Lady _back_. She'd parted with her wolf once before. She never wanted to do it again.

As the Lannisters walked back to the Keep, with Joffrey making insufferable comments at every step, Sansa distracted herself with thoughts of her other problems. Why had Theon not replied to her letters? She'd sent several, warning of Balon Greyjoy's rebellion and attack on the northern towns.

But lead settled into Sansa's stomach. She knew exactly why Theon hadn't replied. Her letter warning of Jaime's capture had been mistimed. Instead, she should have warned Theon about himself. The Iron Fleet had been spotted on the move. Every day that passed, Sansa feared hearing word of Winterfell. It was only a matter of days before Theon sacked it.

The crowd was growing more restless. A pile of dung smacked into Joffrey's face.

Sansa could only sigh. Of course, today would be the riot, when she'd been assaulted and nearly– With a shudder, she shifted closer to the Hound. This was a day she couldn't risk going any differently from before. It had been bad enough as it was.

"Kill them!" Joffrey cried. "Kill them all!"

With that, the riot exploded. Hands grabbed at Sansa, pulling her every which way. Her dress tore. Arms wrapped around her, tugging her into a building. Sansa screamed. For all her efforts, she'd lost sight of the Hound.

"You're mine, little lady," a voice sneered from behind her.

Sansa screamed again. He covered her mouth. She bit his fingers. With a shove, he threw her to the floor.

_No no no no no–_

And suddenly, the man made a gurgling sound. He fell with a thud.

"Sansa!"

She recognized that voice. But she was hallucinating, she had to be. There was no way someone from home could be here. She was on her own, had always been on her own–

Rough hands turned her over and she flinched away.

"Sansa, look at me!"

Slowly, her eyes drifted to his face. Theon. Apparently, she couldn't trust her eyes, either. If she did, they'd tell her that Theon had just killed a man for her, was covered in blood, standing next to a body gushing from its neck–

Her doubts gave way. It was far too grim for a hallucination.

"Theon?" she whispered.

He grinned, offering his hand down to her. Sansa ignored it, crushing him into a hug.

"Alright," Theon said, laughing as he hugged her back. "I'm glad you're properly grateful. I've got a room in an inn nearby, we can hide you–"

"No, no." All her knowledge rushed back to her, plans forming as quickly as she could. The Hound would be here any moment. After that, the Lannisters would scour the entire city looking for her. Only the riots would hide them. "We have to run. Right now, as fast as we can."

Theon frowned. "Sansa–"

"Please, Theon!" she begged. "Trust me and run!"

He gave a nod, tugging her after him through the doorway. The moment they'd crossed the alley and into the street behind, Sansa looked back. The Hound stepped out of the building, searching. Sansa huddled into Theon's side, trying to avoid the Hound's gaze.

Theon paused to swing his cloak around her shoulders, pulling up the hood to hide her distinctive hair. Sansa could only smile gratefully as he tugged her onward.

The whole city was in chaos. Theon and Sansa ducked into doorways, dodged flying rocks as his cloak and their fine clothes still marked them as more than peasants.

They needed to go north, obviously, but Sansa tugged Theon west, toward the Goldroad.

“Sansa,” Theon said between breaths as they ran. “What are you—”

“The gate’s the closest,” she replied, dodging a sour-faced man with a barrel on his shoulder. “And there are woods nearby. The Kingsroad leaves us exposed and the Lannisters will catch us. They’ll be expecting us on the Kingsroad.”

“The Lannisters?” Theon laughed. “We’ve left them behind! You’re free!”

“No one’s free until they’re dead,” Sansa muttered. "Some, not even then." Never stopping, she tugged him west.

Slowly, Theon’s merriment slid from his face. Seeing Sansa again had made him forget all her strange letters, her awful knowledge, and made him think only of the prissy girl who had screamed when he'd gotten mud on her dress. This was not that girl.

“The Goldroad,” Theon said. He’d trusted her letters and not been proven wrong yet.

The moment the gate came into sight – and the Gold Cloaks guarding it – Sansa ducked off into an alley. Theon bit back the exasperated comment on his tongue. Bending over by the side of the road, Sansa scooped dirt into her hands, running it through her hair.

Theon watched, aghast, as she smeared it down her dress, as well.

“My name is Alyse Blackwood,” she said calmly, rubbing the dirt in. “I’m your cousin who ran away from home, who still refuses to leave with you. You thought you’d give me a talking to in the woods, show me the right of things. Who might my cousin be?”

“Theon Rivers,” he replied, still watching her with disbelief. “No one’s looking for me.”

Sansa smiled. “Fair enough.”

 _She’s fourteen. Fourteen,_ he kept repeating to himself, as Sansa looped her arm through his, heading merrily for the gate, the hood pulled back up to hide her hair. _There’s no way in the world she’s gotten this clever_.

The gate neared. Twenty feet, ten feet, five— A Gold Cloak slanted his pike across the road. Sansa looked up with a comical amount of alarm.

“Who goes there?” the Gold Cloak asked. “There’s been riots in the city.”

Theon shifted uneasily. Two guards stood on this side of the gate, two more on the other. His fingers twitched to rest on his sword, but he dared not risk it. Not yet. Taking on four Gold Cloaks in armor was more than he’d be able, especially with a lady to protect.

“I know!” Sansa blurted, with a sniffle as if on the verge of tears. “I was attacked! Mobbed! I just want to go for a walk in the woods, clear my head of this awful rabble.”

The other of their pair of guards stepped forward, peering at her. “Say, she looks an awful lot like that red-haired Stark. Lower your hood, girl.”

Theon laughed, trying to hide the hammering in his chest. The woods behind the gate loomed so tauntingly near. “You hear that, Alyse? What a compliment! I’ve heard she’s the prettiest girl in all the North!”

“Aye. Pretty,” the suspicious guard said. “And a traitor. Lower your hood, as I said.”

Slowly, Sansa lowered her hood. Her hair still stood out flaming-red, even through the dirt.

The guard turned to his companion. “Send word to the Lord Commander. He’ll be able to tell us if she’s the one.”

“How dare you delay us!” Theon said, blustering up to his whole height. “This is Lord Blackwood’s daughter, and if he hears of it—”

“He’ll congratulate me for doing my job,” the guard replied, with a patronizing smile. “Won’t be long before you’ll be back on your way.”

Theon reached for his sword. Sansa looked at him with fear in her eyes. There had to be another way, had to—

But retreating would be a sure sign that she was indeed Sansa Stark. The guards would never let them leave. Theon only had one option. His fingers tightened around his sword’s hilt.

A grey shape leapt from the woods. The guard on the other side of the gate only had time to scream before the direwolf was on him, ripping out his throat. His scream died in a bloody gurgle.

Theon’s sword was out before the scream ended, stabbing through a weak spot in the nearest guard’s armor. The second guard turned. Theon smashed him in the face with the hilt. As the guard fell, he ran him through the neck. Theon turned his attention to the other side of the gate. The direwolf had bitten the last guard by the sword arm, shaking him like a child’s rattle. The guard reached for his knife. Before he could act, Theon slit his throat.

He reached back for Sansa, but she was already running forward, throwing her arms around the wolf’s neck. “Oh, Lady!” she cried, burying her face in the wolf’s bloody fur. “You wonderful creature! I’ll never leave you again, I promise!”

“I thought I helped,” Theon muttered.

With a watery grin, she turned to him, including him in the furry hug. “I’ll say you’re a wonderful creature, too, if it’ll make you feel better,” Sansa said.

“It might,” Theon replied. Uneasy about standing this close to a direwolf with blood dripping from her muzzle, eyeing him warily, he took a step back, out of Sansa's embrace. “I left a horse behind at the inn, to rescue you.”

With a cheeky smile, Sansa dipped a curtsy. "I thank you for your generosity, kind Ser."

Unable to stop a smile of his own, Theon tugged her off the road and into the safety of the woods. The horse was a small price to pay and they both knew it. He hadn't had a plan to get her out, not really, and was struck by the realization that nothing but Sansa's insistence they run _immediately_ would have had the remotest chance of working.

But how had she _known_?


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa and Theon trudged through the woods as Lady loped ahead to scout and wandered back every so often. Every time, the wolf would stop to lick Sansa's face and then set off into the woods anew. Every time, Sansa couldn't keep from grinning like an idiot. Her wolf was safe. _She_ was safe. And Theon… Looking at him, a wave of happiness threatened to overwhelm her. Theon hadn't attacked Winterfell. He hadn't betrayed Robb to Balon Greyjoy. Bran and Rickon were safe.

Theon caught her staring. "Do I have something on my face? I thought I got all the blood off, back at the stream–"

Sansa shook her head, fighting the blush rising in her cheeks. "Thank you," she said softly.

Abruptly uncomfortable, he looked away. "There's no need to keep thanking me."

"Not for the rescue," she clarified. "For listening."

Slowly, he looked back toward her. "Your letters always knew far too much, not even including what you told me back at Winterfell. How did you know?"

She kept her gaze fixed on the ground. Someday, she had always known she'd have to pay the reckoning for the truths she'd told to Theon. Perhaps she could pass herself off as some sort of seer, but in a world where Theon hadn't sacked Winterfell, where perhaps Rickon would live, perhaps _Robb_ – she couldn't be sure how accurate her prophecies would remain. She'd risk the truth. If Theon didn't believe her, she'd deal with it as it came.

"I've lived this before," Sansa softly said, still too much of a coward to raise her eyes from the muddy ground. "I lived until I was twenty, till the Night King returned from beyond the wall and the good men of the Seven Kingdoms died fighting him back."

She'd lived to rule the North, in truth, lived to see the crown set on her head – and woken up as a girl the morning after. But with Robb the King in the North and all her brothers living, she wasn't about to mutter anything that would wish them ill.

There was no way to prove anything she said – no way except the information she'd already told him, over many letters. For a long while, Theon was silent, walking next to her. Then, finally, he asked, "What happened?"

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," Sansa said, lifting her chin higher. "Eight years – six now – is a long time and I've a dreadfully good memory."

She braced herself to explain Theon's relationship with his father, with Yara, his crazy uncle, still debating what to tell of Reek–

"What happened to _you_?" Theon asked, his eyes intent upon her face. "Six years is a long time. Especially with a good memory."

Her eyes flicked to him against her will, then away. "If you hadn't rescued me, after the Lannisters defeated Stannis, they would have married me to Tyrion." Theon jolted in shock and she barreled on. "He's a good man and did no wrong by me. But at Joffrey's wedding to Margaery Tyrell, Baelish and the Tyrells killed the king and blamed it on the two of us. I fled with Baelish, who tried to marry me to Robin Arryn, and succeeded in marrying me to–" Sansa swallowed. "Ramsay Bolton."

Theon frowned. "But he's… you said…"

"Yes," Sansa replied, forcing her voice to remain firm. "That was how I knew."

"Oh, Sansa," Theon said. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pity in his voice.

"You were there," she whispered. "With Ramsay. He'd hurt you and tortured you and broken you. And you'd betrayed us, taken Winterfell and lost it to the Boltons and were the reason Rickon had to flee - and why he died. But you were there with me. And you were the reason I escaped Ramsay. You took me to Jon, at Castle Black."

Sansa risked a glance at him. His face was unreadable, staring off into the trees. Instantly, she regretted saying so much, regretted telling him of his suffering, his brokenness.

"I died, didn't I?" Theon finally asked.

Sansa nodded. But she cut him off before he could reply. "You died fighting for Winterfell. You died protecting Bran from the Night King. You bought the time Arya needed to kill him, to end the Long Night." Tears ran down her cheeks for the Theon of her own time, her friend she still missed so dearly. "You died a hero. Every woman, man, and child alive in Westeros owed their fate to you."

"Well," Theon said. He forced a bright smile. "That's not so bad, then, is it?"

A laugh burst from her. It mingled with her tears, as she fought in vain to force both back. Smiling and crying, she looked at Theon, who smiled back.

"But that's all different now, isn't it?" Theon asked. "You're not marrying Tyrion this time around."

"I'm not marrying any of them," Sansa said heatedly. "I'll strangle Ramsay with his own guts before I let him lay a finger on me."

"Do you have a plan?" Theon asked.

It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. She smiled up at him. "I'm making one."

"Good." He gave a sharp nod. "Robb could use your advice."

Her smile widened, dimpling with happiness at the edges. "He's never listened to me before."

"He's been listening to you for months," Theon said, with a grin over at her. "Only he doesn't know it, yet."

"Has Robb taken Harrenhal, yet?" Sansa asked later, over a thin meal in an inn off the Goldroad. Neither of them had brought anything but the clothes on their backs, making a hot meal a necessity. A warm bed was an added benefit, with the possibility of bargaining for horses in the morning.

Theon shook his head. The inn was nearly empty and no one was near, but they spoke in whispers all the same. "Heading to Oxcross."

Sansa nodded, thinking. "Then the Crag, then Harrenhal, then Riverrun."

"Riverrun?" Theon said, grimacing. "That's doubling back. Why in seven hells would he go to Riverrun?"

"Because grandfather died," Sansa said, sipping at her soup.

"Still," Theon gestured across the table, sketching a line down the wood. "If we're pressing west, driving the Lannisters before us–"

"It's a mistake," Sansa replied. "I know. So is Harrenhal. When he gets there, everyone is already dead."

Theon paused, trying to hide his shock. Sansa continued sipping her soup.

"What we need," she said calmly, like she hadn’t casually mentioned knowledge of a sort that would turn the thrones of the world on their heads. "Is to make an alliance with Stannis."

"Stannis!" Theon burst out, before lowering his voice. "The man's a nightmare. Did you know, he chopped his own knight's fingers off, just for being a smuggler?"

"Yes," Sansa replied. "And then knighted him afterwards. He's not perfect, I'll grant that, but what better option do we have?"

"Renly. He's got the forces, the allegiance of his men, and Robb's already sending your mother–"

But Sansa was shaking her head. "If Mother left, by the time we get to Robb, Renly will already be dead, killed by dark magic from Stannis."

"He's sounding more likeable all the time," Theon muttered.

Sansa put her hand over his. "For all his faults and hardness, he'll uphold the law. He's a just man. If he gives his word to the North, he'll keep it."

Reluctantly, Theon nodded. "So, what, we go treat with him?"

"He won't have it," Sansa replied. "He believes it's his duty to rule all Seven Kingdoms and isn't willing to budge. Perhaps if we could taunt him with Jon, somehow…"

"Jon? What would Stannis want with a Stark bastard?" Theon knew Sansa had to be joking and wished she'd give it up soon before he lost what little was left of his mind.

Sansa gave a bashful smile. "He's… um, a Targaryen, actually. And technically, he's the rightful ruler of the realm."

Theon grabbed his ale. He drank until he saw the bottom of the cup. Immediately, he ordered another.

"I'm not lying," Sansa said softly, once the serving girl had left. "If you don't believe me, when Mother comes back, she'll have a sworn swordswoman, Brienne of Tarth, who's almost as tall as the Hound."

Theon's new cup of ale had arrived. He settled into it immediately, pouring it down his throat.

Sansa sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned all of that. It's just so… _good_ to be able to tell the truth after all this time. You're the only one who doesn't make me feel like a lying lunatic."

Finally setting down his cup, Theon shook his head. "I met Talisa; I already knew you weren't lying. You are a lunatic, though. I'm just glad you're on our side."

With a small smile, she took it for the tease that it was. "My other concern is the ironborn. With you gone from the Stark camp, the Greyjoy ships have already been seen on the move. It's likely they'll start ravaging the North, just like they did last time. For all I know, your sister might have already taken Deepwood Motte."

Theon choked on his ale. "I should have gone to my father, claimed my birthright, stopped him–"

But once again, Sansa was shaking her head. "They don't respect your birthright. They consider you weak, a greenlander. They'll respect and follow you once they see your strength, but I haven't figured out a way to show them, yet."

Surreptitiously, Theon straightened in his seat. "My strength?"

Sansa nodded, distracted with her own thoughts. "Your way, taking a castle you couldn't hold, backfired terribly."

Theon shrunk back in his seat and she continued. "Your father will die in the next year or so. At the Kingsmoot, your crazy uncle shows up and takes the rule from you. Perhaps that will change, though, now that you…" She coughed, trailing off.

"Now that I what?" Theon asked.

"Rescued me," Sansa said sweetly, not fooling him for a second.

"Sansa…" he warned. "You already told me about Jon bloody Targaryen. Don't hold out on me now."

Sansa's face could have been cut from stone. "Can produce heirs," she replied.

Theon made a face. "Of course I can. When in seven hells couldn't I…" He trailed off at the realization.

"Yes," was all Sansa replied. "Ramsay."

Theon's face was a thundercloud. "He dies."

"Yes."

Sansa lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling. Change was wonderful, marvelous… and terrifying. With everything shifting, how far would the repercussions fall? She couldn't say.

Theon lay awake, staring at her from his bed across the room. "You know so much," he whispered to her in the dark. "You could do anything you wanted. What is it you want?"

"To save my father," she said. 

"Sansa," Theon chastised.

"To save my family," she answered instead. "To save my mother and Robb and Jon and Arya and Bran and Rickon. Even the ones that live, we're all changed. We've all paid the Iron Price for it."

"You've already paid it," Theon replied. "You've paid it for all of them."

"I know," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it may not be enough."

A happy thought glowed through her misery and Sansa rolled over, facing Theon from across the room. "I saved you. That's one family member down. It bodes well for the rest, doesn't it?"

With a snort, Theon rolled away. "I'm not a Stark."

Her smile was wasted on the dark. "Aren't you?"

Shocked, Theon rolled back toward her. But after the stress of the day, Sansa had already fallen asleep.

 _And I saved you,_ he added to himself. _That makes two._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, working in a world as complicated as GoT, this is likely far from the last time you'll see a correction from me, especially cause you lot are so dang clever! ;)  
> Balon never got Theon back in this timeline, but I don't think Balon would have needed Theon back in order to act against the North, especially when King's Landing is a lot farther journey from Robb than Pyke would have been. Theon has been gone from the Starks for a while now (Sansa mentions that it has been a long time since she heard from him) and Balon would absolutely know it. But, in typical me fashion, I forgot to mention most of this. XD  
> In Chapter 4, I've added: "The Iron Fleet had been spotted on the move. Every day that passed, Sansa feared hearing word of Winterfell. It was only a matter of days before Theon sacked it."  
> In Chapter 5: "My other concern is the ironborn. With you gone from the Stark camp, the Greyjoy ships have already been seen on the move. It's likely they'll start ravaging the North, just like they did last time. For all I know, your sister might have already taken Deepwood Motte."  
> (pretend I didn't also get it wrong and write Moat Cailin last time XD)  
> Thanks for reading! :)

The innkeeper had been willing to part with two horses (though his prices for the brutes was unthinkable) and Theon had gotten him to throw some of his daughter's dresses into the bargain. Ripped lady's finery did not make for inconspicuous riding. The stout woolen dresses would be perfect.

After Theon had finished saddling the horses, he headed up to collect Sansa, running into her on the stairs, heading down. He stopped cold. Fleeing for their lives yesterday hadn't given him time to appreciate it, but his statement about her being the prettiest girl in the North had not been an exaggeration. Even in a dress cut like a sack, her hair tied back in a braid, she was a vision of loveliness.

At first seeing him, she smiled her breathtaking smile, but the longer he stared, the further her smile faltered. "What's wrong, Theon?"

"Can't you, I don't know–" He gestured vaguely at all of her. "Be less pretty? I can't hide you with every man in ten leagues staring."

Sansa stood flummoxed. She'd never heard a compliment couched in so much annoyance. "I could rub dirt in my hair again–"

"Oh, nevermind," Theon said, grabbing her wrist and tugging her after him. "Just don't look at anyone."

Using her other hand to pull her hood up, Sansa followed, with a small smile for Theon's aggravation.

"What do you remember about the Iron Islands?" Sansa said, as their horses plodded down the Goldroad. The Lannisters would be hunting for her, but he doubted they'd expect her with a single escort. A man and a woman on the road together could be anyone. Especially once they turned north towards the Riverlands, where her hair would no longer draw comment.

"Oh, I don't know," Theon said, flicking his reins uncomfortably. "I was a boy. You'd know more about them than I do, I expect."

"I've never been."

And her smile at him, so warm, so safe, invited him to tell the truth. "I don't remember much, anymore. I remember little things, our customs and ways, but all the specifics have been… rubbed round by the waves, I guess. I remember my family but I barely remember their faces." Theon looked away, scanning the woods for any sign of Lady.

"I barely remembered what my father looked like, by the end." Her pained smile hurt to look at. "I was so grateful to see him again. When we were at court this time around, I saved my allowance and had an artist take his likeness. It's not perfect, but it's wonderful, all the same."

"Then I'm sorry you had to leave it behind," Theon said.

"Oh, no," Sansa said, pulling out her necklace emblazoned with a bold, Lannister lion. "I keep it here, always."

He felt stupid for saying it, but… "That's a Lannister necklace."

Sansa smiled. "Yes. A present from Joffrey. I thought it fitting. Something I knew they'd never take away from me."

Theon wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"I liked your sister," Sansa said, redirecting back to her original topic. "Practical. A good leader. Impressive, really, all she accomplished when the ironborn usually despise females."

Clenching his jaw, Theon kept his eyes on the road. It wasn't his fault he wasn't there, wasn't his fault he had to grow up on stone and snow and not sea–

He pulled his horse close to hers. "Riders. Up ahead."

Sansa resettled her hood, making sure it well-covered her hair. "Too late to hide in the woods. Hopefully they don't pay us any mind."

"Don't go mouthing off with this lot," Theon said. "Clever girls attract notice."

Any comments in reply were cut short. The riders were Lannister men. A whole column, riding toward them. Sansa kept her eyes locked to the ground as the soldiers approached. Theon guided the horses off the road, waiting patiently for the soldiers to pass like good, loyal subjects.

One by one, the column clopped past. Some bore wounds, some bore bandages, but all looked weary with a long day's ride.

Theon held his breath. Thirty men, all in Lannister red. One wrong move and they'd kill him as soon as breathing. Then Sansa would be recaptured, and probably raped, and–

"Ho there!" The soldier at the end of the line rode towards them, a captain, by the look. "What are you two doing out on the road?"

Sansa lowered her gaze further.

Theon ducked his head in a quick bow. "Me and the wife are just heading home," he said, trying his best not to sound like a Northman. "The farm's over thataways and–"

The captain stepped his horse closer. "Don't you know it's not safe? The Young Wolf is on the move. Only a matter of weeks before he's left the Riverlands and started putting the Westerlands to the torch."

Theon tried to hide his shock. "I didn't think we had anything to worry about, what with you brave soldiers around."

Sansa kept her eyes locked on the ground, doing her best to look meeker than a mouse.

The captain scoffed. "We've got more important things to protect than farms. The road is closed to travelers. There's a war on." The line of soldiers had almost passed and the captain turned his horse, ready to rejoin them.

"Please," Theon said. "We left our child back with my sister and–"

"Oh, get going!" The captain stepped his horse back into the end of the line. "Die at Stark hands, if you're so desperate for it!" At the last moment he turned back, staring at Sansa. "She's a pretty one."

Theon's heart pounded harder. Saying she was his wife should have given her some protection, with the Lannisters thinking they'd have to kill him to get to her, but–

The captain winked. "You're a lucky man." With a yell to the horses, the column stepped into a trot, quickly gaining distance away from them down the road.

Sansa's hand slipped into his. He held on tight.

"I think it's time we went back to the woods," Theon said.

They'd been walking for what felt like hours, through the thick, root-filled forest, too rough to trust their horses over.

And they'd been traveling for days.

When darkness fell, they began their wordless routine. Sansa unrolled their packs, setting out blankets and rubbing down the horses. Theon wandered into the woods, hunting for sticks that wouldn't smoke too badly and bushes to hide what little fire they dared. And then, once they'd gotten it all settled, Lady would saunter into camp, dragging a half a deer, or a brace of rabbits, or one time a goat that very definitely still had a bell around its neck. They had pointedly ignored the bell all evening. In the morning, Sansa had bumped it, Theon had snickered, and then Sansa lost all sense of composure. Some poor family had lost their goat to a direwolf not seen in the South outside of legends and Sansa and Theon hadn't the faintest idea from which farm, with no possibility of reimbursement. At that point, there was nothing else to do but laugh.

This night, it had been a stag. Or the front quarter of one, from antlers down to one bloody, hoofed foot. Skinning it with Theon's knife, Sansa wished it had been a lion. Then she could feel properly vicious as she gutted the beast.

Behind her, Theon built the fire, coaxing it bit by bit to stay lit – but not too much! – and settled it back down into embers again.

They were far enough off the road that a fire shouldn't be visible, but _shouldn't_ didn't mean _wasn't_ and neither of them were willing to risk it.

Meat roasted slowly over only hot coals and Theon and Sansa settled down to wait.

Lady stretched behind them, a perfect couch to recline against, filled with wonderful heat. Sansa sank against her direwolf's side gladly, laughing as Theon stared with open mistrust.

"You knew her when she was a puppy!" Sansa insisted. "She's not going to bite you!"

"That's what you say," Theon replied. "She _likes_ you."

Hesitantly, he shifted closer. He put a hand on the direwolf's side – a growl shook beneath his fingers. He ripped his hand away.

Sansa couldn't stop laughing. "She's messing with you, Theon! She knows you're scared of her!"

"I'm scared of her because she's worthy of scaring me," he replied. "You haven't seen Grey Wind with _limbs_ sticking out of his mouth and–!

"Oh, stop being a baby. Just– Here." Placing her hands on his shoulders, she shoved him backward. He fell back against the direwolf's grey fur. No growl arose. Sansa still leaned on him, her hands braced on each shoulder. Theon stared up at her, not daring to breathe.

Abruptly, she sat back on her heels, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides. "See? No harm done."

"Yes," Theon whispered. "But now I can't move or I'll disturb her."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "If you wanted me to bring you food, you could have just asked."

He flashed his cheekiest grin. She passed him a skewer, leaning back against Lady next to him to eat her own.

"I never got to do this before," Sansa finally said between bites. Leaning against her direwolf, juice dribbling down her chin as she ate smoked deer in the middle of a forest, Sansa Stark, bloody _Princess_ of the North, looked utterly content.

"Well, yes," Theon replied. "You've said this was the first time that I rescued you."

Her grin beamed across her face. "First time from _King's Landing_ ," she clarified. "Third? No, fourth time you've rescued me, all considering."

Theon felt a little lump catch in his throat. She was worth rescuing. She was worth rescuing every time.

With a sigh, she leaned back against her wolf. "But I meant Lady, actually. I've never gotten to know her larger than a puppy." As if she could sense the conversation, Lady craned back to give Sansa a giant lick, then settled her furry head on Sansa's shoulder. It must have weighed a ton, but Sansa couldn't have looked happier, stroking her wolf's head as the animal settled down into sleep.

"You must have missed her a lot," Theon said, licking the last of the stag off his skewer.

"Every day," Sansa replied. "How I hated Joffrey for that. Hated the Queen. But mostly… mostly I just hated myself."

Theon could relate. Every time he'd let Lord Stark down (and oh, how many times there had been) he'd felt the weight of his disapproving glare following him around for days. But more than anything, he'd hated himself for having earned it.

"Tell me a story, Theon."

"A story?" he frowned, kicking dirt over their little fire. "What sort of story?"

Leaning further back into Lady, she tugged her cloak over herself. "Something from your childhood. From the Iron Islands."

"From the Iron Islands?" he said, with surprise. "I can't remember any happy stories from there."

"Then tell an unhappy one."

Theon settled back, before realizing that the warmth was Lady. He waited, frozen– until he saw her giant tail thump with happiness. Still not quite trusting her, he resettled again, silently promising it would be the last time.

"Legends say–" Theon stopped, feeling silly. He hadn't listened to tales since he'd been a child. He'd never _told_ a story before in his life. Sitting in silence, he could do nothing but feel the chill of the woods in the air, the warmth of a direwolf at his back, hear the gentle breaths of the princess at his side… and perhaps not feel so silly anymore for talking about legends.

With strength in his voice, he began again. "On the Iron Islands, legends say that the great hero Hrothgar carried a horn that, when blown, summoned krakens."

Sansa made a contented hum at that and he carried on.

"Some say the Drowned God himself made that horn and cast it into Hrothgar's hand in punishment for his pride. For Hrothgar had boasted that his fleet was stronger than any creatures of the deep, his arms capable of slaying any kraken. Now, krakens can be summoned, but they cannot be commanded…"

Surrounded by her wolf, falling asleep to the sound of Theon's voice, Sansa wondered if there was anything more peaceful in the entire world.

She didn't think there was.

It had been two weeks of hard riding through the woods, with inns hard to come by and harder to risk. Two weeks, and then, after nightfall just outside Oxcross, a scout picked them up – a scout with a wolf emblazoned across his armor.

They were tired, they were dirty, Theon could swear he still had thorns stuck in one pantleg– but they were unmistakably home. Repeating her life left few wonders for Sansa, but she stared about herself in awe. She'd never seen Robb's war camp before. There sat the Manderleys, with whom she'd played as a girl. One of them had lost an arm. Common foot-soldiers clustering around an iron stew-pot across the way laughed loudly at something Lord Karstark had said. They laughed again when he winced at the taste of the stew.

After being in the South for so long, it was absolutely delightful having the North come to her. Though, it felt like looking at ghosts. Where she came from, all these fine Northmen were dead. They died fighting for Robb, in the Red Wedding, fighting for Jon, or fighting the dead. Too many dead at her family's call. There sat Dacey and Maege Mormont, with no thought of dying and leaving Bear Island to her ten-year-old daughter. And there sat the Glovers and the Cerwyns and the Hornwoods–

"I brought something you might like, Your Grace," the scout said as he headed in to Robb.

With the curtains on the tent pulled back, Sansa could see all the way inside to where Robb stood hunched over a table shuffling maps. She stood in mute shock, unable to take her eyes off of him. Robb. Alive. In her previous life, after she left Winterfell, she'd never seen him again. It was a miracle. She looked at Theon, who grinned back at her. Theon had given her a miracle.

"Is the 'something I might like' a few thousand bannermen?" Robb asked flatly, pulling the candle closer to another map. "Or perhaps word that the Vale is finally on the move?"

"Er… no, Your Grace." The scout shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Take it to someone else, then," Robb said, still not looking up. "Lord Umber, perhaps."

"Maybe I will!" Theon shouted from outside the tent.

Robb's eyes snapped to him. Then, slowly, not believing what they saw, they fell on Sansa.

She pushed her hood back. But Robb was already running. He crushed her in a hug, spinning her around, her feet swinging off the ground.

Sansa clung to his shoulders, laughing like a girl as she spun.

"Mother!" Robb called. "Look what Theon brought us!"

"Theon?" Catelyn called from inside her tent as she stepped through the flaps. "That worthless Greyjoy, running away– SANSA!"

And then Catelyn threw herself onto her daughter, joining the laughing huddle of Starks.

"I said I would," Theon said, feeling a bit defensive. "I said I'd get her–"

Catelyn stretched out an arm, pulling Theon into the huddle whether he liked it or not. "I apologize for every mean-spirited thing I've ever said about you, Theon Greyjoy," Catelyn said, trying to sound serious through her happy tears. "You've been more of a brother to my daughter than her own blood."

"Mother!" Sansa said, barely visible from the middle of the Stark huddle. "Robb's right here, you can't just–"

"Theon brought you home and I didn't." Robb grinned, clapping Theon on the shoulder. "Mother can say anything she likes. I'll agree with it."

Around the camp, men were drifting out of the tents, peering to see what the commotion was in the center of camp.

Robb broke away from their huddle, pitching his voice to be heard across camp. "Lord Greyjoy has brought my sister, Sansa Stark, home! A feast in their honor! To the Princess of the North!"

Cheerful cries and repeated calls of, "The Princess of the North!" replied to his most exciting announcement. Sansa knew the men were happier for the food than for her return, but it was nice to be able to pretend.

Next to her, Catelyn hadn't taken her eyes off her daughter for a second, still silently crying while she smiled.

"I'm sorry we couldn't bring Arya," Sansa said. "I know you've been worried, but she escaped King's Landing–"

"Of course I'm worried," her mother replied, pulling her into yet another hug. "But let me enjoy this while I can, before I think of Arya in Lannister hands."

"But she isn't," Theon said, finally having something to contribute, to ease his awkwardness from standing amidst their reunion. "Arya escaped them at King's Landing–"

"And then got caught by Tywin at Harrenhal, yes I know," Catelyn said with annoyance. "So please, let me just enjoy Sansa for a moment."

Theon started to slink away, but Sansa grabbed his arm. On her face was pure terror. "How do you know?" she asked her mother. "How do you know they have Arya? They lied before; it's doubtful they've announced that they lost me–"

"Because they showed her to us at the last battle!" Catelyn snapped, now truly crying. "Tywin sat her in front of him on his horse to taunt your brother! He has her at Harrenhal!"

For a moment, Sansa couldn't speak. "This is my fault," she whispered. "I did this."

"Sansa, no, sweetling," Catelyn said, running her hand through her daughter's hair. "You didn't even know; how could this be your fault?"

But Sansa turned to Theon, only just then realizing she still gripped his arm. "I did this," she repeated.

Unlike her mother, he didn't try to deny it. "That wolf over there," he pointed with his chin, to where a lighter grey direwolf lay forlornly with its head on its paws. "That doesn't look like Grey Wind."

Catelyn wiped at her tears with a handkerchief. "Nymeria. She was following the Lannister forces, nipping at them wherever she could. She was going to get herself killed, so we took her–" Her mother broke off into sobs again.

Sansa rubbed a comforting hand on her mother's back, trying not to fall apart, herself. Robb sauntered back over, still grinning, and was caught aback by his mother's tears. He pulled her into a hug.

Theon still looked at Sansa, waiting for answers.

"My friend Winafrid would say that girls shouldn't have direwolves," Sansa said to him as clearly as she could, with her mother and Robb a foot away. "That the queen would demand mine be killed and Arya drive hers away, to never be seen again. That keeping them around might be throwing a wolf into one end of a pond and a kraken into the other and hoping to make no ripples."

Staring at Nymeria, Theon only whispered, "Shit."

Lady lay down at the forlorn wolf's side, giving a lick up her sister's face. Nymeria blinked but did not move. With a low keen, Lady put her head over Nymeria's neck. Slowly, the sad wolf closed her eyes, finally dropping into sleep.

"It's all my fault," Sansa said again, staring at the wolves. Her sister was in danger and all because Sansa had missed her pet direwolf. If she'd _thought_ for one second, if she'd– But no. Sansa _had_ thought. And she'd thought nothing could have kept Arya safer than her direwolf. She'd thought and she'd been wrong.

Theon grabbed her hand. "Then we'll fix it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the moment when I was like, "Ooh, I'd love to show some of this from Arya's perspective!" But realized that once I started that, I'd never stop, want to explore all GoT's lovely characters, and I'd still be writing this after GRRM finishes Winds of Winter ;-; So I'll be sticking with just Sansa and Theon for the foreseeable future.   
> Museflight and LoveRoundWorld had wonderful Braime ideas that I hope they develop and if anyone else wants to write spinoff stories or alternate paths to travel, I'd love to link/promote/whatever AO3 will let me do. You guys are the best, seriously. <3


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Sansa got to sit around her first war room council. Some of the men looked askance at her presence, but Theon pulled out her chair and she sat. Even Robb raised an eyebrow, but he was still too happy to have her back to protest.

"The Crag," Lord Umber said, stabbing his finger at a map. "It's the next logical spot to hit and keep the Lannisters running!"

"But there's prisoners at Harrenhal," Lord Karstark said, with a glance at Robb. "Two hundred good men, including my son, waiting for us to rescue them, and with few guards, at that."

"The Lannisters will kill their prisoners before they let us have them back," Theon replied. A moment too late, he realized the implications, turning pale as a sheet. Karstark turned to him in fury.

Robb's fist slammed onto the table, his face hidden as he stared down at it. "Out."

Theon stood. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I didn't–"

"EVERYONE, OUT!"

It had been a short meeting, after all. Slowly, the Lords stood, making slight bows as they left. Sansa remained sitting. She gripped Theon's hand where he stood, holding him rooted.

"You think they'll kill them all," Robb said flatly, still not looking up from the table.

"I'm sorry, Robb, I didn't–" Theon started.

"Yes," Sansa replied. "They'll kill the common soldiers. They won't be stupid enough to kill Arya."

Robb looked up at that.

"You still have Jaime," Sansa reminded him. Abruptly, she paused. "Don't you?"

"Yes." A humorless snort left him. "Something someone may have mentioned in a note my mother did not find amusing."

Sansa looked confused. Theon could only grin.

"A little birdie told me it was a possibility," Theon said, dropping back into his seat. "Didn't want your mother ruining my surprise gift of Sansa by trying to buy it with the Kingslayer."

Robb covered his face with his hands. "And now she wants to trade him for Arya. I'm doomed to have the same useless arguments every day until one of us dies."

"What do you _want_ to trade him for, Robb?" Sansa asked. Jaime was a valuable prisoner, absolutely. But, eventually, he would escape and cause problems. No prisoner was worth sowing dissent among the northern lords – especially not if they could trade him _now_ and gain some benefit while avoiding disaster.

Robb sat, looking flummoxed.

"Or are you hoping to wait till the end of the war, when you can execute him?" she continued.

"I don't know," Robb said, and he sounded so overwhelmed that Sansa wanted to wrap her arms around her brother until all his problems melted away. "I've made a mess of everything but the battles. The ironborn have attacked the North. Even if I wanted to go home, to defend my people, Balon Greyjoy holds Moat Cailin." He slammed his fist on the table again. "I can't even get to the North to defend it."

Abruptly, Sansa realized that without Talisa, Robb had been stripped of his main comfort. Here he was – barely more than a boy, leading a war, and all alone.

"You could trade the Kingslayer for Harrenhal," Theon offered. Robb looked at him, shocked, but Theon continued on. "And all the prisoners inside it. That's 200 men, Karstark said. That's not trading him for one little girl, but she'd be one of the ones you get back. And Karstark would get his son back, and others of your bannermen, so they wouldn't be likely to string you up by your feet."

"Tywin wouldn't take it," Robb scoffed.

"He might," Sansa said. They turned to look at her. "Tywin would do anything for Jaime. Especially if he didn't see it as losing anything since they were going to abandon the castle when you approached, anyway."

Robb froze. "And how do you know this?"

"I was in King's Landing," Sansa covered quickly. "Joffrey was very fond of bragging, something in which I encouraged him."

"And why do you keep calling the Kingslayer 'Jaime?'" Robb wrinkled his nose. "It sounds so… familiar."

Sansa bit her lip. The reason was because he was Brienne's closest friend, her sworn sword's lover, and because she proudly called 'friend' any man who fought the dead at Winterfell. Except, Jaime and Brienne had never met outside of his cage, Jaime still had both hands, and the Wall had not yet fallen. He was only the man who had crippled her brother. Sansa vowed to be more careful.

"She's been around no one but the Lannisters for two years, Robb," Theon said, making the same defense that she'd just made sound fresh and convincing. "What do you think they call their uncle? 'Kingslayer?'"

"I think they call him 'Father,'" Robb said. Abruptly, all three burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh like a child again, surrounded by her family, sharing a brief moment of childishness with all of them.

But all too soon, Robb sobered. He stood, walking to the side of the tent, his arms crossed behind his back. "I'll consider Harrenhal. It's not a bad offer, Theon." He turned to Sansa, ruffling her hair. "But when did you get so grown up?"

"The day I left for King's Landing." She'd meant it literally. With a sad nod at her metaphor, Robb left without another word.

Life at camp soon consisted of little but war meetings. Theon leaned back in his chair, wishing he could have been back on the road with Sansa. It had been nice, just the two of them, fending for themselves. Now that the danger was gone, and the hunger, and the cold, it all seemed like it had been a pleasant little trip.

Sansa sat across the table from him, next to her mother, and he couldn't keep his eyes from drifting to her. Even just sitting in the tent, saying nothing as she soaked in the various positions and battle strategies, the room already felt less dreary. Looking around, Theon realized he wasn't the only lord sitting straighter, with the others sporting better trimmed beards and combed hair. Theon had to grin. She had that effect on people.

"The Tullys are holding Riverrun with five thousand men," Robb said, smacking the carved fish token onto the map. "They won't hold for long, but the rest of their banners are gathering, and hopefully they can lure Tywin west."

"Tywin's got twenty thousand men spread across the Riverlands and Westerlands," Lord Bolton added, gesturing to the lion tokens. "We have them on the run, but they'll fall back to Casterly Rock."

"And we've barely got twenty thousand to match his," Lord Karstark said. "Not including the castle. Any word from the Vale, Lady Stark?"

Catelyn shook her head. "None. My sister has decided the world outside is too dangerous. She is going to sit out the war."

Groans echoed around the table.

"We need more men," Lord Umber added.

"We need alliances," Rob agreed.

"Good thing Walder Frey and his 5,000 are on our side," Karstark said with a laugh. Robb grimaced and Theon couldn't help feeling for the man.

"Well," Umber looked suddenly uncomfortable, as the eyes of the room fell on him. "We have _her_ , don't we?" He pointed to Sansa. As Robb turned murderous eyes on Umber, he quickly added, "Begging Your Grace's pardon. I know you just got your sister back, and all."

"That is quite enough," Catelyn said, glaring down the table at each man in turn. She skipped Theon, for which he was grateful. "I have indeed just gotten my daughter back, and from a failed betrothal, must I remind you?"

"Your sentiment does you credit," Bolton said. "But if it means the difference between independence for the North or the deaths of your family and all who sit here, it might be wise to consider it."

Theon couldn't have torn his eyes off Sansa for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Her quiet, happy demeanor had vanished. In its place sat a pale fear, growing at each word spoken. She stared down at her locked hands in front of her, not even blinking.

"Aye," Karstark added. "The Dornish aren't so bad, are they, milady? They don't hit little girls, down there."

"Except if the little girls are holding a spear," another lord added.

"At the other end of the continent?" Catelyn said, aghast. "They couldn't even get here in time, let alone care about a kingdom farther removed from them than Essos!"

"Still," Umber nodded. "10,000 Dornish spears would be awfully handy and they've no love for the Lannisters."

"Odd, then," Sansa finally spoke. The whole tent dropped into silence to listen. "That they've just betrothed themselves to Myrcella Baratheon."

"Sansa," Robb said, frowning. He had not ventured his opinion yet, not directly, and the room hung in the balance. "I know you just got back, but an alliance sealed by you could make a world of difference in the war."

"I know," Sansa said.

Theon gripped the arms of his chair, desperate to strangle something. _He'd_ just gotten her back, damn them all! If they thought he'd go down to Dorne to rescue her next time, they were out of their bloody minds! At least Sansa had made her own feelings on the matter clear. _I'm not marrying_ any _of them!_ she had said, with enough heat to cook an omelet. He could relax safely in _that_.

"And I'll do my duty for the sake of an alliance," she continued. Around him, every lord was breathing sighs of relief, but Theon couldn't breathe, couldn't see– " _IF!_ " At that one word from her, she drew every eye like a lodestone. Sansa smiled her most unassuming smile, a rose spreading petals to hide her thorns. "If a suitable match can be found."

"Dorne," Karstark repeated, but Sansa shook her head.

"Already allied to the Lannisters and too far, as my mother said," Sansa replied.

"Robin Arryn, of the Vale," Bolton suggested, but again Sansa shook her head.

"They already have a bond of family that they’ve chosen to ignore. Why should cowardice be rewarded with a second bond, one they'd likely ignore a second time?"

"The Tyrells!" someone else suggested.

Sansa paused, looking as if the notion had caught her off-guard. "I have reason to believe the Tyrells are not available," she hesitantly replied.

"Loras Tyrell is available," Bolton smiled humorlessly. "What with Renly dead."

"Still," Sansa protested, "They have no interest in the North–"

"I'd call forty thousand marching men suitable," Umber said to Karstark.

"Higher than that," Karstark replied. "With the Redwyne fleet, to boot."

Umber whistled. "That could win the war, it could."

"Bloody listen to the girl you're bartering away!" Theon yelled. The room paused, turning to him in confusion. "She has spies in King's Landing. Befriended their Spymaster, if I'm not mistaken." Sansa had said no such thing, but sneaking regular letters to him from the heart of Lannister power spoke to _something_ of the sort. Adding her own information to the mix would make the claim hard to disprove.

The lords all turned to her. "Is this true, Sansa?" Robb asked.

With a blush, Sansa nodded. "I would discuss further in private, Your Grace, but I do not believe the Tyrells to be an option."

Robb nodded acquiescence. With that, the discussion started up again.

"Surely some bannerman of the Baratheon's?"

"The Redwynes, themselves!"

"House Egan, of the Vale?"

Lady Catelyn stood, drawing the entire room to attention. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! This is disgraceful, all of you! Marrying my daughter, the prize of the north, to House Egan, and their 1,000 men? It wouldn't be worth the deserters we'd lose, for rightly seeing our cause as a lost one!"

"If we're truly that desperate," Sansa said. "You could always force the Kingslayer to marry me. Perhaps _his_ father will give us the troops we need."

Uncomfortable laughter echoed around the tent. Theon didn't appreciate her humor. _They would if they could_ , he thought viciously. The leather in his glove creaked as he clenched his fist.

With Catelyn's upbraiding, the conversation in the room drifted among various topics though never straying far from Sansa. The idea of pinning their salvation on _her_ instead of fighting for it themselves had all these military men bloody overjoyed. Umber suggested a house, forgetting that they were all _dead,_ and Theon lost it.

"The Iron Islands," Theon whispered. No one heard, still caught up in offering shithole lords with ten men to their names. "THE IRON ISLANDS!"

Every lord in the tent fell silent, looking at Theon. Even Sansa pinned him with her gaze. He dared not look her way, instead fixing on a spot just over Karstark's head.

Umber broke the silence with a snort. Quickly, it grew into a full, belly-shaking laugh. “You’re not serious, boy?”

Theon jumped to his feet. Indignation coursed through his veins, his hands shaking as he clenched them. “Of course I’m bloody serious. I—”

Umber cut him off with another laugh. Leaning back in his chair, he slapped his chest as he roared with laughter. “You’d offer a princess to those rebellious, barnacle-ridden, pustules? They aren’t worth—”

“Lord Umber,” Catelyn snapped. “Lord Greyjoy is a ward of my house. You will give him your respect.”

“And my sworn brother,” Robb added, leveling Umber with all of his kingly gaze.

Umber’s laughter ceased. Looking between Catelyn and Robb, he could tell when he wasn’t wanted. “Indeed he is, Lady Stark, Your Grace. Though it is past _my_ bedtime if we’re going to be telling tales fit for children’s ears.” With a stiff bow, he left the tent.

Theon still stood, unsure if sitting down would be taken as a sign of weakness. With additional bows and murmurings of farewell, the other lords left the tent. Theon remained standing while only Robb, Catelyn, and Sansa remained.

Sansa hadn’t taken her eyes off of Theon while Robb hadn’t once looked his way.

“I’ll need to talk to you about the Tyrells, Sansa,” Robb said, shuffling his maps away into their cases. “Whatever you know about them, I need to know it. Even just stealing the Redwyne fleet out from under them would be a boon—”

Without another word, Theon stalked from the tent.

He could hear feet running after him and sped up to outpace them. Perhaps he could get to his horse, could go for a ride to clear his head of so much humiliation. Of course the ‘noble Starks’ would defend him to outsiders, but gods forbid they actually _consider_ his proposal!

“Theon!” Sansa called.

_Gods, not her. Anyone but her._

“Theon, wait!”

Flinging himself onto the back of his horse, he galloped off into the night.

Sansa flung open the curtain of the tent, storming back to Robb and looming over him where he sat. "You made Theon leave," she growled.

"Good," Robb said, never looking up from writing a letter. He dipped his quill in the ink before continuing. "I'd been worried that he'd gotten overly familiar."

"Overly familiar?" Sansa said, feeling her blinding rage growing. She hadn't been this angry since – yelling at her brothers, so many years ago. Apparently their stubbornness brought it out in her. "He saved my _life,_ Robb. He saved me from getting _raped._ "

Robb flinched at that. Sansa felt a shred of remorse for hurting him but not enough to stop. "Joffrey stripped me in the middle of the throne room and beat me. The Lannisters were going to marry me to the Imp. But that didn't happen because Theon didn't _let_ it happen! He killed for me. More than once, against bad odds, without hesitation. He risked his life to protect me and he'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"And I'm very grateful," Robb said.

Sansa snarled down at him. "If any other man had done what he had, you'd have gifted him a kingdom of a boon."

Finally putting down his quill, Robb looked up at her. "Aye. If he'd been a follower of the Seven, I would have knighted him. But no boon would stretch to the hand of my sister. You know that, Sansa."

Her anger simmered enough only for her to sit. "Fine. You want to know about the Tyrells? I'll tell you all about the Tyrells and how they'll lose us this war."

Robb folded his hands atop the parchment, watching his sister intently.

"Baelish was at Renly's camp when Mother went there, yes?" she asked.

Robb nodded. "He gave us back Father's bones."

Sansa sucked in a breath. It was so easy to forget the cruelty that had started this, the one swing of the sword that had set everything in motion.

She took a moment to steady herself. "Baelish was there negotiating with the Tyrells for the Lannisters," she said. "The Tyrells will only sell their army for a crown on Margaery's head. And that's what Baelish offered them: Joffrey."

Robb's frown deepened. "I see. This is why you knew you wouldn't be a big enough prize."

Sansa nodded. "And I didn't want the others to know until you decided how much to tell them. Stannis will attack King's Landing through Blackwater Bay. The Lannisters will barely be able to hold him off – until Tywin comes sweeping in with the Tyrells behind him. They'll destroy Stannis. With the Tyrells, the Lannisters will become stronger than ever."

Robb's frown shifted down to his maps, studying them once again. "That's conjecture. You can't know any of that for sure."

Sansa gritted her teeth. If Theon were here, he could talk sense to Robb–! She sighed. "It's the logical course," she explained. "Whomever the Tyrells side with will win and they _won't_ side with Stannis, not to mention he's already married."

"What about offering the Tyrells a Queen in the North?" Robb mused.

Dread curdled in her stomach. "You're betrothed."

Robb winked at her. "So is Joffrey. To you, last I heard."

Sansa shook her head. "Margaery likes flirting and flowers and scheming. She would hate the North, with its cold climate and harsh, direct people."

Nothing good could come of tying Robb to Margaery. She was a kind person but she was ambitious – and she'd drag the North into it with her.

If Robb married Margaery, she'd have him win the Iron Throne – or die trying. Sansa knew which one her money was on.

But even after all her discouragements, Robb smiled up at her. "I'll send Mother to talk to the Tyrells, then. Loras Tyrell wouldn't be so bad, would he? Not if I'm married to his sister?"

Closing her eyes, Sansa took till the count of five. When he wanted to, Robb could be as stubborn as their father. "Loras is gay." While her brother blinked stupidly at her, Sansa continued. "You need to apologize to Theon, Robb."

"Apologize?" Robb's face twisted in distaste. "Whatever for?"

Sansa stood. "For refusing my only sensible match."

"Sansa," Robb drew out her name, rebuking her in his most patronizing tone. "I know he rescued you and you think he's some sort of hero, but the Iron Islands are _not_ a suitable match. They're barren little chunks of rock where resentful little people are the only ones stubborn enough to grow. If not Loras Tyrell, we'll find you someone else in time."

"Someone brave and gentle and strong?" Sansa asked.

Robb frowned. "What?"

"That's what Father promised me, once. But nevermind. If virtues don't interest you, how about this." She leaned on the table for emphasis. "The Iron Fleet."

Finally, Robb had had enough. He lurched to his feet in anger. "And Theon doesn't control them! He has one sword to his name, and _that_ because Father _gave_ it to him! I tasked him with going to Balon Greyjoy, with offering an alliance so tempting only a _fool_ would refuse. Instead, Theon ran away. He didn't even have the guts to tell me to my face, because he knew _I'd_ refuse! Because he knows as well as I, that one girl, no matter how much I love her, is not worth losing the war! And now his father’s fleet has been spotted sailing _NORTH!_ "

Still fuming, Robb's chest heaved as he struggled to rein in his anger. "I'm grateful to have you back, Sansa. But not with a thousand tears could you convince me to marry you to the man who fled from his own family, lost us the Iron Fleet, and wooed my sister without my consent. No, Sansa. You will have no apology from me."

She didn't know what to say. "Robb," she started, reaching a hand toward him.

Robb turned away. Leaning over the table, he refused to meet her gaze. "Leave me be. I've a war to plan."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Robb as much as the rest of you (I do, honestly, he's one of my faves), but I was really hoping someone would call him out on the unintentional hypocrisy in his lovely statement that, "one girl, no matter how much I love her, is not worth losing the war!" ;)
> 
> *cough cough Talisa*

Theon returned in time for the prisoner exchange.

"Theon–" Sansa tried to question him, to apologize, to anything, but he turned away.

"I swore to fight for the Starks," Theon said, still not able to look her in the eye. "I'm here to fight for the Starks."

Harrenhal loomed. Even if Tywin hadn't agreed to cede the castle, the rest of the terms offered had been enough for Robb. With Jaime between them in chains, Robb, Sansa, and Theon stood at the front of the contingent of their army. Behind them, Brienne stood on guard and Lord Karstark held his archers at the ready. Surrounding Robb and Sansa waited the three direwolves: Lady, Grey Wind, and Nymeria.

Jaime looked over the lot with a dismissive air. "Looks like you're expecting quite the party."

Sansa stared unflinchingly ahead. "The things we do for love."

Jaime turned to her. He stared and stared but Sansa's gaze straight ahead never wavered.

Brienne gave a jerk on his chains. "Eyes front, prisoner."

Jaime glared back at her. "As soon as I cross this field I'll be a free man, in command of my father's armies and you'd do best to remember–"

"Yes, as soon as you cross it." Brienne tugged on his chain again, making him stumble. "Prisoner."

The gates of the ruined castle opened. Lannister archers manned the battlements, with bows at the ready but no arrows nocked. Some of the Stark archers stirred, but Robb motioned them into ease with his hand.

Nymeria broke ranks. Snarling, she paced in front of the troops, her restless paws wearing grooves into the forest floor.

"Easy, girl," Robb said. "Wait for Arya."

The wolf continued pacing.

Tywin rode forward. He looked every inch the vengeful king, draped in red astride his black warhorse. As he walked closer, Sansa's breath caught. Next to him walked Arya. Without thinking, Sansa's hand found Theon's. Startled, he looked down at her hand – and then back at Arya, squeezing tight.

With every step, Arya pulled futilely on the rope binding her hands to the lead that sat in Tywin's hands next to his reins. Tywin ignored her. He stopped his horse at the edge of the gate.

"Have they hurt you, my son?" Tywin called.

"They've been very mean, Father," Jaime replied. He'd been scrubbed for the occasion, though his once-golden hair still hung grey and limp. "Tied me in a muddy pen, without proper food–"

"Are you intact?" Tywin cut in, with no small amount of exasperation.

After a long pause, Jaime answered, "Yes."

"Arya?" Robb called.

"He's the worst!" Arya yelled, with a violent tug on the rope. "He threatened to have my eyeballs scooped out, and he pulled off all my toes, and–"

Tywin glared down at her.

Arya sighed. "I'm fine."

Tywin motioned to his troops behind him. His troops stirred. The Stark soldiers put arrows to bows, about to draw back–

The 200 Stark prisoners stepped into view. They waited behind Tywin in a milling herd. Sansa spotted Gendry among them and her heart gave a lurch of pride. Good for Arya, slipping him in among the Starks.

"Lord Karstark?" Robb asked, with a tilt of his head to the man behind him.

"Aye," Karstark replied. There were tears in his eyes, though he tried to hide them. "That's my boy with them, alright. Wylis Manderly, too."

Robb gave a nod to Tywin. With a nod from Tywin in reply, the prisoners began their march.

From Harrenhal, 200 men, all with bandages and many with missing limbs, strode one step at a time toward the waiting Stark army. Arya walked in the lead, taking in the sight of her waiting siblings with glee.

From the Starks, Jaime walked toward his father, escorted by three direwolves. He looked uneasily around him as the beasts hemmed him in. Nymeria growled. Jaime continued on, trying his best to ignore them.

The groups were supposed to meet in the middle of the field. Nymeria couldn't wait. With bounding strides, she covered the distance. Lannister archers pulled bowstrings back, their arrows pointed at the running direwolf.

"Hold your fire!" Rob yelled. "She means no harm!"

The wolf bounced closer. Tywin raised a hand, ready to summon a volley of arrows at the twitch of his finger.

"Nymeria!" Arya cried, running to her wolf.

In a final leap, the wolf bounded on her, knocking Arya to the ground. Pinning her by the chest, it licked her face over and over again as the Stark girl giggled.

"Nymeria, I'm okay!" Arya said through her laughter. "But you're _heavy,_ girl! Get off!"

Slowly, Tywin lowered his hand. His archers relaxed.

The prisoners passed in the middle. With the two direwolves as guards, the injured Stark soldiers walked back to Robb and his armed escort; Jaime continued onward alone.

From the middle of the field, Arya got to her feet. Nymeria's tongue lolled from her mouth as she panted happily by Arya's side.

Jaime had almost reached the Lannisters. Arya called out, "Hey!"

The Lannister troops stirred. Tywin turned to her, waiting.

Hands on hips, her brow furrowed with fury, Arya said, "You still have my sword!"

One of Tywin's eyebrows ticked upwards. "We are not in the business of returning captured arms."

"I don't care!" Arya said. "It's my sword and you can't have it!"

Sansa could have _sworn_ Tywin was fighting down a smile. "This little thing?" he said, gesturing to where Needle hung on his hip. "More like an overgrown knife, I'd say."

Arya crossed her arms, not done glaring. "You don't need it. You'll just throw it away."

Jaime had reached his father's side. Tywin bent down, grabbing Jaime by the chin and turning him every which way, as if to make sure his son hadn't been lying. Finally satisfied, he looked back to Arya.

"You're right," Tywin said. "I will."

Arya started to protest as Tywin pulled her sword from his belt, flinging it into the grass at her feet. He turned his horse without another glance back at the Starks. "Close the gates!" he commanded his men.

Harrenhal's gates slammed shut behind him.

"Why can't I go with you and Mother to talk to the Tyrells?" Arya asked for about the fiftieth time, pestering Sansa in her tent as she packed. "I just got back and all, I don't know why you'd want to leave me–"

Stuffing the last of her newly-bought dresses into her bags, Sansa levelled a glare at her younger sister. "For the last time, Arya: no. Just tell me how the Lannisters caught you."

Dropping onto Sansa's cot in a huff, Arya swung her feet in the air, staring fixedly down at them. "I wouldn't be a bother," she said in a small voice. "You'd hardly know I was there."

"Arya," Sansa said, at her most commanding and even she could hear her mother in the tone.

Arya sighed. "Tywin'd already picked me to be his cupbearer. But then some of his guards kept talking about seeing a wolf in the woods and… and _shooting_ it if they did, so…" She swallowed. When Arya looked up at her sister, suddenly she looked like the twelve-year-old she truly was. "I couldn't let them, Sansa. I just couldn't. And I guess one of the guards saw me trying to make her leave."

Sansa pulled Arya into a hug. "I would have risked heaven and hell to keep Lady safe. I'm just glad you weren't hurt."

"But you know," Arya started up again and Sansa could _hear_ the wheedle in her voice, even before she'd truly asked. "If I came, Nymeria would tag along. Another wolf would help protect you, right?"

Sansa was just starting in on another glare when someone stepped through the open tent flap. "All set?" Theon said. "The hostlers are loading our things on the horses, ready to leave in the hour."

" _THEON_ 's going?!" Arya said, with a crushing disappointment.

He ruffled her hair as Arya pouted harder. "Course I am. Someone's got to look after the girls."

Sansa didn't know how to ask this politely, but… "Robb let you?"

With a tense set to his mouth, Theon gave a nod. "I pointed out your mother's sworn swordswoman and that it'd look positively ridiculous if our entire negotiating party was made of women." He shrugged. "And since I'm Robb's best fighter, I was the natural choice."

With a raise of her eyebrow, Sansa fought not to smile. "And so modest."

He grinned. "I thought honesty was better."

She rolled her eyes as Arya huffed from the cot, disappointed at being forgotten, yet again.

"We'll be back soon, Arya," Sansa said, leaning down to stare her in the eyes. "I thought you'd like being in a war camp? Plenty of training going on around here for you to learn from."

" _Yes_ ," Arya said, like they didn't understand the simplest thing. "But what I really want is–"

The light through the tent flap was abruptly blocked out by a six-foot three-inch Mountain of a woman. Brienne of Tarth, standing there in her brilliant gold armor and glaring down at them. "Lady Catelyn wants to know if she'll, and I quote, 'be waiting all day for the lot of you.'"

Arya's mouth hung open in delight, as it did every time she saw Brienne.

"We were just about to leave, Brienne," Sansa replied, gathering her bag. Theon immediately took it from her, heading to the horses. The others followed behind him. "Won't the riding be rough, in all that armor?"

They walked through the camp, Sansa delicately lifting up her skirts to avoid the many mud pits. Arya followed behind like a puppy, eagerly staring up at the Lady Warrior.

Brienne hesitated. "I will not be accompanying you, my lady."

Sansa stopped. "Why not? We've need of good swords on the road."

Brienne bowed her head. "The Tyrells believe me to have killed Renly, their king. It… would not help negotiations."

"So you mean you're _staying?!_ " Arya asked, overflowing with glee. She hadn't been this happy to see her own _family_ again. The intense discomfort on Brienne's face concerned her not a whit.

"It would seem that I must," Brienne replied.

Arya spun with happiness, punching the air. "Yes! Just wait till I tell Gendry! GENDRY!" she called, running through the camp.

Brienne sighed. "Is she always like this, my lady?"

Sansa could only smile. "Only around you."

Brienne's look of pain intensified.

Sansa rested a hand on Brienne's arm. "I'll tell her not to, if it bothers you. She needs to learn manners some day. But I've never seen her this excited in my life."

"I'm not a nursemaid," Brienne said with a frown.

"She doesn't want a nursemaid. She wants a training master."

Brienne made a face. "But she's so _small_."

"Yes," Sansa replied. "And fast. For the rest of her life, everyone will always underestimate her." _Including the Night King_. "It would be best not to be one of them. If you give her the chance, I believe she could be the most dedicated pupil you'll ever receive."

Brienne studied Arya as the girl chatted with the blacksmith. "Is this a command, Lady Sansa?"

"Of course not," Sansa replied. "You swore an oath to my mother, not to me. But I would ask you to consider it, as a friend."

Shocked, Brienne turned to her. "My lady?"

Sansa smiled. "My offer of friendship is there, should you wish it."

"My lady, I–"

"Sansa!" Lady Catelyn stormed through the camp, glaring at her. "Any time we want to leave a place, are we destined to wait upon your leisure?"

With a final pat on Brienne's arm, Sansa followed her mother.

Behind her, she could hear Brienne shouting and turned to watch. "Arya! Pick a training sword and be in front of me before I count to five!"

Arya scurried over as fast as she could. "But all the training swords are huge. I can't Water Dance with those–"

"Water dance on your own time! When you're with me, you learn how to _fight._ Am I clear?"

Her eyes wide, Arya nodded vigorously. She grabbed the smallest wooden sword. Holding it upright, the tip immediately began tilting downwards.

"I'll see if someone can't make you a smaller one," Brienne muttered. "Now. We'll start with a basic block. Miss it and you'll get hit."

"Sansa!" Catelyn said, her hands on her hips.

Sansa ran through camp, no amount of mud puddles able to dampen her grin. Arya was going to be taught the sword. Perhaps Sansa hadn't sabotaged her sister too badly, yet.

"Brienne of bloody Tarth," Theon said, with a shake of his head once they were on the road. "You told me about her weeks ago and I still couldn't believe it until I saw her with my own eyes."

"Don't insult her." Sansa frowned. "She's extremely loyal and an excellent fighter."

"I wouldn't dream of insulting her," Theon replied, with a spark of mischief in his eye that said the opposite. "I've dueled her three times and found three different ways to be knocked on my arse."

As their horses plodded along the road, Sansa couldn't help smiling at him. It was nice to be traveling again, but with thirty armed horsemen surrounding them and her mother on her other side, well, it wasn't quite the same.

"I wonder if I shouldn't send you home to Bran and Rickon," Catelyn said, with a glance over at her daughter. "All this running about in camps can't be good for a young lady."

"I'm with my family," Sansa said. "And I can help, I–"

"Yes, yes, I know all about your spies," her mother replied. "What I want to know is what a girl of fourteen is doing having spies. Our own haven't picked up a tenth of the information you gathered!"

"The North doesn't have spies," Theon said with a look of distaste. "You have gossip, dangled by people who actually bother gathering it."

"Watch your tone, Greyjoy," Catelyn snapped.

Giving a mocking bow, Theon let his horse fall back to ride with the men surrounding them.

"Mother," Sansa sighed. "I wish you would not treat him so."

"Oh, you wish it, do you?" Catelyn said in a vicious whisper, snapping her reins. "I wish he had not embarrassed himself and us by proposing an improper betrothal in front of all our allies!"

"Mother," Sansa said again. "He is kind and he is my friend. Many of the matches suggested for me were horrid. Of _course_ he would try to spare me–"

"After it's a known fact that he spent weeks on the road alone with you, Sansa? It's indecent, it's–"

"Yes," Sansa snapped. They had some privacy from the soldiers around them, but her whispers could not stay muted long if she remained this furious. "It's positively _lurid_ that when we feared for our lives, I _held his hand_. When he returned me to camp, you greeted him as my brother. Yet you deny him that whenever it suits you!"

Unable to listen any longer, Sansa spurred her horse faster, joining the men in front. The talk from the soldiers immediately stopped; they'd likely been discussing something considered 'indelicate' for ladies' ears. Sansa sighed. Wherever she went, she was a burden.

"Carry on," she said, trying to hit the appropriate balance of friendly and commanding. "I've been around Lannisters for the past year; I'm sure I've heard worse."

The soldiers laughed. Their talk resumed, if more quietly than before. Sansa paid them no mind. With the speed their small group could make, the Tyrells camped only a few days' ride distant. Sansa needed all the time she could to prepare. Whatever she thought about Robb breaking engagements, it was a fact that Tyrell support would win the war. Sansa had to do whatever she could to get it.

And this future, whether it be good or ill, was unknown to her. And _that_ was terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tywin & Arya scene might be my favorite in my entire story. Guess that means it's all downhill from here. XD
> 
> NEXT WEEK: Tyrells! :D


	9. Chapter 9

The moment they entered the Tyrell camp, Sansa was greeted by an unwelcome sight.

"Catelyn! Sansa!" Baelish said, striding forward. "So good to see you again, and so soon!"

Catelyn continued past him without a word.

"Petyr!" Sansa said with her biggest smile. He offered his arm and she took it easily. "I thought I'd never see you again!"

He smiled down at her, placing a hand over her own. "Yet here we are."

"Petyr," she said, turning him to face the rest of the Stark retinue. "I don't believe you've met the other lord accompanying myself and my mother: Theon Greyjoy, a ward of my house. Theon, Lord Petyr Baelish."

Theon squinted. "You're the one they call Littlefinger?"

Baelish's smile thinned. "I am."

"Petyr is the King's Master of Coin and one of my dearest friends in King's Landing," Sansa said, willing Theon to understand, to remember his own words about her befriending a spymaster…

"It is a shame you had so few friends and that your stay was so short. We are all the poorer for it," Baelish said with another smile down at her. He turned to Theon. "I hear we have you to thank for that, Lord Greyjoy. Quite a feat of daring, rescuing a lady from under the Lannisters' noses."

"A princess," Theon corrected. "Her brother's king."

"Princess Sansa," Baelish tested it out. "That does have a good ring to it." He turned toward the main tent, still leading Sansa by the arm. "Shall we? The Tyrells always have marvelous refreshments."

Theon stared at the man as they walked, trying to figure him out. Watching him with Sansa made Theon vaguely uncomfortable. He'd never seen Sansa act so friendly with anyone before, yet she'd never spoken of Baelish.

"Lord Greyjoy," Baelish asked. "What was it like being a ward of the noble Starks? I myself was a ward of the Tullys, raised alongside our dear Catelyn."

Theon frowned. Sansa stared at him with a blank gaze, her face betraying nothing. "It was fine," he said.

"Oh? 'Fine,' was it?" Baelish said with a laugh. "It wasn't hard being around a family not your own, with privileges and expectations you were never born to share?"

Theon was tempted to simply reply, 'No,' but thought that might be taking it a bit too far. "I'm a Greyjoy. I've my own family's expectations to live up to."

"Yes, a Greyjoy wearing furs and finery," Baelish replied. "Seems the Starks do like to housebreak their pets."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Theon snapped.

Sansa clapped her hands together. "Petyr! You haven't seen _my_ pet in the longest time!" She leaned closer, as if sharing in some mischief. "You'll be _so_ surprised. Meet Lady."

As always, the direwolf came without needing to be called. Her sleek light grey body stood at a level with Sansa's chest, her steps soundless as she stopped next to her mistress. Lady's fierce gaze locked unwaveringly on Baelish. With the slightest baring of fangs, a hint of a growl rumbled in her chest.

Immediately, Baelish dropped Sansa's arm. He took hurried steps backward.

Sansa laughed, high and girlish. "Oh, don't worry, Petyr! As you said – the Starks housebreak our pets."

Baelish swallowed.

"I've seen her rip a man's throat out before he could even draw his sword," Theon said, enjoying himself far too much. "And she's the nicest of the litter."

To his credit, Baelish tried to smile, even if it did wobble around the edges. "If you'll excuse me." He strode across to the main camp. Theon was impressed that he wasn't running.

"Did you see his face?" Theon grinned. "I'll bet he–"

Sansa grabbed his arm, turning him to face her. Only barely moving her head, her eyes flitted around them, checking that they couldn't be overheard. "Don't trust Baelish for an instant and don't appear too friendly with me around him."

"Whatever for?" Theon frowned. "You said he was your friend–"

"Yes," Sansa said. "I'll say a great many things in order to get letters to dear Winafrid. Assume Baelish is out to kill you and you'll never be wrong."

His frown deepened. "Sansa, you can't mean that–"

She dropped his arm like it was on fire. "If you've ever trusted me on anything, trust me on this." Without another word, she strode for the tent.

Theon was left in her wake, trying to figure out what to do with such an enemy.

"–Lord Mace Tyrell, his son Loras, and his daughter Margaery," Baelish concluded the introductions.

"Please," Margaery said, sweeping her arm towards the room. As always, she wore her graceful smile. "Make yourselves at home."

Much small talk was had, especially by Mace Tyrell and Lady Catelyn who discovered they had friends in common, though they had never met. Sansa kept up polite discourse with Margaery, Loras, and Theon, though her real goal was to study Margaery. She had never seen Margaery before she'd been betrothed to Joffrey, never seen her when she was grasping for power as opposed to having already obtained it.

"Not that it isn't wonderful to meet you, Lady Stark," Margaery said to Catelyn, "but why come all this way just for the greeting?" Margaery gestured to a servant for wine to be poured for the table.

Catelyn smiled. "To congratulate you on your upcoming betrothal, of course."

So quickly that if Sansa hadn't been looking for it she would have missed it, Margaery shot Baelish a glare. Then it disappeared, covered by a smile. "And where did you hear that? It sounds like gossip from someone with too much time and a dreadful imagination."

"King Renly is barely dead," Loras added. "You can't seriously be suggesting my sister would betray his memory so soon."

Catelyn faltered. She'd had only Sansa's word saying it to be true and had now offended the House they had sought to befriend.

Sansa cut a delicious slice of the peach on her plate, taking a moment to savor the way it melted in her mouth. Baelish had been right; the Tyrells _did_ know how to do refreshments. "Yes, outlandish gossip, isn't it?" Sansa said with an easy smile of her own. "Makes it all the more fun when it turns out to be true."

Margaery watched Sansa with confusion. Whatever mental boxes she had for potential tools and enemies, Sansa had not yet been sorted. But, from the look on her face, Margaery was wondering if Sansa might be one of the players.

Behind Margaery stood Baelish. Sansa knew he was making a similar discovery, knew it would put her even more firmly into his sights. But what must be done, must be done.

Sansa smiled over at Margaery. "I'm sorry, our talk of gossip has upset you. There's no need to continue. I can share some of my own, though, if you're in need of a little diversion."

Catelyn watched Sansa, unsure who her daughter had become.

Margaery's smile radiated happiness. "Oh, do! Let us do away with this distressing talk of betrothals. There's nothing I love so much as good gossip."

Sansa's smile never wavered. They were a smiling pair of pretty birds, the two of them. Margaery would never know that Sansa's smile had grown from studying Margaery's own.

"I find gossip from the capital to be fascinating," Sansa said. "I spent so much time there, you know. Did you hear about the time a singer composed a rude song about King Robert's death? Joffrey demanded he sing it in the throne room and made the singer choose whether to keep his hands or his tongue. He chose his hands; Ser Illyn Payne removed his tongue on the spot."

The Tyrells stilled, not daring to breathe.

Sansa popped a grape into her mouth. "Oh, how silly of me, of course you did. Lord Baelish was there."

Margaery turned and stared at Baelish, who had gone very still. He had eyes only for Sansa, watching as the little dove revealed that beneath her feathers, a predator lurked.

"You may _not_ have heard," Sansa continued. "That Joffrey took me onto the ramparts and forced me to look at my father's and my Septa's spiked heads. Only the Kingsguard were present for that. Of course, there's also the time he wanted to force a man to drink to death at his own name-day celebrations, or the time he stripped and beat me in front of the court, pointing his crossbow at me all the while."

Sansa smiled again as she took another bite of the peach. Her face was the only one in the tent not wearing a look of horror. Her mother was the most horrified of all. Sansa had not told her any of this before but Catelyn couldn't say a word without making her own daughter sound like a liar.

"Sweet child," Margaery said, with the sincerest sounding sympathy of them all. "I can't even imagine what suffering you've seen."

"There's no need to spend your sympathy on me, my lady. I'm well free of King's Landing. I only mention it as your camp is on its way there presently." Sansa's smile dimpled at the corners, turning sweet. "But you're so much prettier and cleverer than I am. I'm sure no one would _dare_ do anything of the sort to you."

Theon snorted before he could stop himself. He tried to cover it with a cough. No one was fooled.

"I'm sure they wouldn't do anything of the sort to Margaery," Catelyn said, flicking her eyes at her daughter in a warning. "The Tyrells have always been much loved at court, for as long as I've ever heard the name."

Mace Tyrell smiled happily at that, finally offered a piece of the conversation that he could understand.

"That is certainly true," Sansa replied. Catelyn shot her another warning look, saying, _Hold your tongue!_ but Sansa wasn't about to risk losing the Tyrells to half measures. "The Tyrells are loved, whereas I was the daughter of a traitor who died proclaiming Joffrey a bastard. I'm sure none of the Lannisters would remember that the Tyrell's beloved King Renly's claim to the throne was based on their incest."

"Sansa!" Catelyn said, scandalized.

Margaery stood. With the slight motion, every eye drew to her, regaining her control of the room. "I've only just remembered you've been on the road for days! How thoughtless of me. You must be so tired. We have tents prepared if you'd like to rest and refresh before supper."

Sansa offered her a curtsey. "Lady Margaery, you are too kind."

"Not at all," Margaery said. Thorns hid behind her smile.

A stream passed by the edge of the Tyrell camp. Theon sat by its edge, idly tossing rocks in and watching as they splashed. Rescuing Sansa from King's Landing had seemed the obvious thing to do but ever since then, he'd felt more and more adrift. Robb didn't need him. He'd barely let him come on this negotiation mission. Wasn't his place with his family, back on Pyke?

But the Greyjoys weren't on Pyke. They were in the North, according to Sansa, sacking the homes of the Stark bannermen he fought beside.

Theon tossed in another rock.

"Lord Greyjoy," Baelish said, standing on the hill behind him. Theon turned, staring up at the man Sansa had warned him about. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Theon gestured toward the open grass next to him.

Swallowing a look of distaste for dirtying his robes, Baelish sat.

"Marvelous women, those Starks," Baelish said.

Theon wasn't sure how to give a reply. Thankfully, it seemed Baelish didn't need one.

"I found an interesting piece of information circling among their soldiers," Baelish continued.

"Oh?" Theon said. "What's that?"

Baelish's dark gaze fixed on him. "That you declared intent for Sansa Stark."

Theon swallowed. Sansa had _warned_ him not to appear too friendly with her, warned on pain of his _life_ , and it had been for nothing. Of course a spymaster would ferret out a rumor no one was bothering to hide.

"Did you, now?" Theon finally managed, knowing his casual air was too belated to be convincing. He looked back toward the river. _Assume Baelish is out to kill you and you'll never be wrong._ But Theon had his sword with him while Baelish appeared unarmed. If Baelish were going to kill him, he doubted it would be immediate.

"Did you know that I declared intent for her mother?" Baelish said.

Theon spun toward him at that, unable to keep from staring.

Baelish smiled. "Two confused little wards, you and I. A mockingbird trying to swim and a kraken trying to run with wolves."

"I manage," Theon said, looking away.

"I'm sure you do," Baelish replied, his tone light and noncommittal. "Just as I did when Brandon Stark won Catelyn's hand."

Theon didn't know what to make of him, this friendly man Sansa had warned him about. Still, he trusted Sansa. If her method of dealing with Baelish was by returning his friendliness, Theon could do worse than follow her example.

"It's nothing of the sort." Theon forced a chuckle. "One of the lords suggested betrothing her to House _Darry_ and I figured I was a more suitable match than _that_."

"Ah, yes," Baelish returned his chuckle. "Hard for even a ward to be less suitable than someone who's dead."

There was a strange gleam in the older man's eye. Theon ran back through his words, trying to see what could have gotten Baelish so excited.

Theon mentally cursed with every foul word he knew. He'd told Baelish the Starks were desperate for an alliance – and willing to sell Sansa for it. He ran through his curses again, directing every single one toward himself. He _knew_ he was talking to a spymaster, damnit!

"I don't know if they're still pursuing her betrothal, though," Theon lied casually, scuffing his boot along the riverbank. "I think an offer they liked came through."

"Oh?" The predatory look was back in Baelish's eyes. "From the Vale? I always thought that the obvious choice."

Theon shrugged. "Not sure. Robb and Lady Catelyn kept it to themselves."

Baelish hummed in reply, staring out at the river. There was something Baelish wasn't saying, some reason he'd sought Theon out that Theon couldn't quite put his finger on. If only he could press, just a little bit further…

Why was Baelish friends with Sansa? He'd admitted to being in love with her mother but nothing about Baelish felt very… fatherly.

"You knew Lady Stark when she was young and a reputed beauty," Theon said, watching him closely. "When she was Sansa's age, were they anything alike?"

Baelish smiled. "In almost every way."

"Oh?" Theon replied. "How have they differed?"

"Cat was sweeter. Sansa is…" Baelish took his time, considering. Abruptly, he smiled his empty smile. "You'd know Sansa better than I."

With a nod, Baelish stood, taking his leave. Theon frowned at his retreating back. There was something going on there. Something he didn't like. He just needed to be sure of _what_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY Baelish and Margaery can start earning their character tags. Writing them is such fantastic fun, my goodness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best, seriously. I don't deserve you all. Thanks for still reading my little tale. <3

"You summoned me, my lady?" Sansa said as she stepped into Margaery's tent. It was far too lovely a thing to expect traveling with soldiers, with cushions on every surface and fabrics draping from the tent walls.

"Yes, dear girl." Margaery stepped closer, holding Sansa's hands. "I've heard so much about the Rose in the North and thought we could talk together, just us girls. What do you say?"

Even just meeting Margaery, already knowing exactly how charming she was, Sansa found herself blushing. "That's a lovely idea. But my lady, you've made that title up. No one calls me that."

Stepping closer, Margaery wrinkled her nose mischievously. "Well, they should. And it's Margaery, please. There's no need to stand on formality. Sit, make yourself at home."

Sansa stared down at the cushions, unsure what to do.

Margaery laughed. "It's the Dornish style! Much easier than lugging great, useless pieces of furniture across hillsides." She reclined against the cushions, looking entirely at ease. Sansa tried to copy her but it felt so _odd_ leaning on her arm.

"Now," Margaery said, leaning closer like she was sharing a confidence. "You've been at King's Landing, but you've also been in a great, dirty war camp. What's it been like? I've always wondered. Renly never got to fight any battles."

Sansa didn't even have to fake her smile. Margaery had guessed why the Starks were here, might even have guessed about Robb – and she was showing _interest_. "I haven't been there for any battles, either. It _is_ very dirty, especially compared to here." Margaery laughed at that and Sansa continued. "Mostly, it was wonderful, seeing all the men from home. It felt like they'd come to greet me."

Margaery's kind eyes held all the sympathy in the world. "I'm sure, child, especially after being away from home for so long. Is it strange, seeing your brother leading men?"

Sansa had to fight to hide her excitement at her mention of Robb. "I thought it would be. Robb's so young, you know. He's your age. But they all respect him and follow him so naturally. I think that was the shocking part, really. That it _wasn't_ strange."

With a smile that could have hidden any number of emotions, Margaery gestured to a servant. "Lady Sansa and I will be taking our supper in here." With a bow, the servant scurried off.

"I talked to one of my cousins," Margaery said, once the servant had left. "She once knew a man you might be familiar with, down in King's Landing. Ser Dontos Hollard?" Margaery barely flicked her eyes to Sansa as she refilled her wine glass, subtly watching her reaction. "I've heard he's the King's new jester."

Sansa nodded, unsure if Margaery knew of Sansa's involvement. "I did. A poor knight, really. Is he doing well?"

Margaery hummed vaguely as she took a sip of wine. "I assume so. He's alive, isn't he? Thanks to you."

Sansa didn't know what to say.

"How long will the rest of them be alive, do you think?" Margaery asked, swirling her wine glass. "With your brother pressing in on one side and Stannis on the other?"

 _Longer than you, if Cersei has her way_. "I couldn't know," Sansa replied. "Wars are so unpredictable, and–"

"Theon says you sit on Robb's war council," Margaery cut her off.

Sansa tried to hide her shock. _Theon_ said? Since when had Margaery talked to him? And why? She didn't trust Margaery around him, not for an instant. She'd have her claws in him as soon as breathing.

"He said Robb listens to you, heeds your advice," Margaery continued. "Tell me. What do _you_ think will happen to the Lannisters?"

"I'm just a girl," Sansa gave a shaky smile. She wasn't half so scared of Baelish as she was of Margaery. "I don't know anything, really."

Margaery leaned closer. "So am I," she whispered. "We'll keep it among us girls, then, shall we?"

Revealing anything was a risk. Margaery could be honestly asking, truly considering abandoning her betrothal to the Lannisters. Or she could be the Lannister's greatest asset, ferreting out the Stark plans through Robb's sister. There was no way to know.

"I don't think we'll get our revenge," Sansa said, choosing her words with precision. "Not directly. I don't think any man from the North will get to cut off Joffrey's head. But it will fall before we march home. And he won't be the only Lannister to lose it."

"His younger brother?" Margaery asked, with an unreadable look. "I've heard he's a sweet little thing."

"He is," Sansa replied. "With his mother's claws in him. Cersei would rather see him dead than allow anyone else to hold sway."

The servant came back in carrying plates of lamb dripped in succulent sauces, the vegetables piled high. Talk ceased as they both dug in, though Sansa with more alacrity. She'd been living on the road and in a war camp for the past month. The Tyrells' food was to _die_ for.

"And how long do you think it will be?" Margaery asked after the servant had left. "Before you march home?"

 _There_ it was – Margaery's ambition. She'd have Robb march eastward, first, to besiege King's Landing.

The Starks would never be able to take it. Robb would march eastward and die. But Sansa couldn't speak against it, not without losing the Tyrells and the support her family so desperately needed.

"Who can say?" Sansa smiled. "Wars take such an awfully long time."

Margaery smiled back. "They do, indeed. Perhaps I'll get to see a battle, after all."

Though from which side, Sansa had no idea.

"Theon!" Sansa hissed at him as he passed, hidden among the shadows of the tents, herself.

He stopped, curious, and stepped behind the tent. "Sansa?"

"Shh!" Grabbing his arm, she pulled him further back, out of the firelight. "What did Margaery say to you?"

A cocky smirk flirted with his mouth. "Why? Are you jealous?"

Sansa closed her eyes, praying to the gods for patience. "Just– What did she say, Theon? She's cleverer than she lets on."

"Oh, she lets on plenty," Theon replied. Sansa didn't like his smile. Finally, he continued. "Wanted to know about you, mostly. Asked about Robb, for the rest."

Her heart pounded in her ears. This was deadly serious. "And what did you say?"

His smirk returned. "About whom? You or Robb?"

"Both, Theon!" Sansa snapped.

"Alright, alright, no need to get tetchy," he replied. "I told her you were more obnoxious than a little sister, so troublesome that I had to–"

"Theon!" Sansa glared at him.

But Theon only smiled. "I said you gave good advice. That the only ones who didn't listen to you were fools. Was I wrong?"

That was… surprisingly flattering. But it didn't account for all of what Margaery had said. "You told her I sit on Robb's war council."

"I told her Robb wasn't a fool," Theon replied.

"What else did you tell her about Robb?"

Theon laughed. "What all you noble Starks kept leaving out, apparently."

Sansa waited in annoyance for him to explain, not about to ask again.

Theon leaned closer. "The most important thing of all. That he's very, very…" His face split into a grin. "Handsome. The prettiest man in all the North."

Oh. That wasn't so bad, then. "Nothing else?"

He shrugged. "Your mother had already said 'kind' and 'honorable' enough that just hearing the words made me want to heave. I said that he was fun. That I couldn't wait until the war was over and we could go drinking together again." Theon grinned, completely self-satisfied. "How did I do, my lady? Did I pass?"

Merciful heavens, had he ever passed. "Thank you, Theon. That may have been invaluable."

"Of course," he replied, with a shrug. "I've always talked Robb up to any girl he's interested in. Just think how great it'll be when the King in the North returns the favor. I'll…" Abruptly remembering who he was talking to, he trailed off in a cough. "Did you need something else?"

Robb _did_ owe him. Sansa would make sure that favor was repaid… to herself. "Yes, actually." Her voice dropped even quieter. "I need to get a message to Stannis as quickly as we can manage. I've no more than a vague idea of when he'll attack the Blackwater."

Theon immediately caught the seriousness of the matter. The Tyrells _hated_ Stannis. "Send a raven?"

Sansa shook her head. "Too easily intercepted and too unbelievable. I need to speak with him in person but there's no way he'd treat with the fourteen-year-old sister of a rebel." She waited, worrying her lip.

"So what's your plan?" Theon said.

"He has an advisor he trusts, Ser Davos Seaworth," Sansa said. "A reasonable man."

"And you think _he'd_ treat with a fourteen-year-old girl?" Theon looked skeptical but not half so much as her words warranted.

Sansa shook her head. "He'd treat with you."

Theon stopped, wide-eyed, and Sansa continued on.

"It isn't much we'd be asking for," she explained. "Robb doesn't even have to know. It doesn't matter if Stannis doesn't agree to independence for the North; we need _this_."

"And what is it we need?" Theon said.

"We need to mine dragonglass from his island of Dragonstone," Sansa replied. "And we need to help him win the Battle of the Blackwater. He should be amenable to that."

"You need me to leave now?" Theon said. "I think the Tyrells will notice when the Stark party of three goes down to two."

Sansa's heart leapt in her chest. Theon hadn't protested leaving solely on her word, to carry her bizarre message, hadn't protested even the slightest bit. She'd be grateful to him forever.

"Not now," Sansa agreed. "We can't risk the Tyrells noticing. I think we may yet have some time."

Theon nodded. "Tell me when time's running out. I'll do my best to get away before then."

"Alright," Sansa said. "Now, you need to be clear on the details before you go talking to Davos…"

"I've had the most wonderful idea," Margaery said as they broke their fast the next morning. Around the table sat the three Tyrells, Sansa, Catelyn, Theon, and Baelish. "Lady Catelyn keeps talking so enthusiastically about the Stark army and all the victories they've been winning. I've decided I'd like to see them for myself."

Sansa couldn't breathe. This was wonderful news, better than she could have hoped for–

"But the Tyrell army is still on the march for the Capital," Margaery continued. "It'd be a shame to divert them for a trifling fascination of mine. I was wondering…" She looked mischievously toward Sansa and Catelyn, inviting them to share her confidence. "What if we swapped?"

"Swapped, my lady?" Catelyn replied. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"Well," Margaery continued, with a wink at Sansa. "If you stayed here with my family, Lady Catelyn, then my brother and I could continue back to your camp with your daughter and Theon. You'd keep ten of your men with you and we'd take ten men from the Reach with us. That way, all of us would be safe and the rest of our party might never even know I was missing. Wouldn't that be delightful?"

"It would, it would! Delightful indeed," Mace Tyrell chimed in.

Catelyn would be a prisoner ensuring the Tyrell's safety, though Margaery would never put it in so crude of terms. Sansa was intrigued. It was a cleverer plan than she would have suggested, herself.

Catelyn's smile bore all the grace of someone trying to refuse. "My lady, it is a fine idea, but I am a mother. I need to get home to my children, not continue playing at war."

"Of course, Lady Stark," Margaery replied. "I could always visit the Stark camp with you and leave Sansa with my family, but I assumed she had been separated from her family for too long, already. And besides," She smiled over at Sansa. "your daughter and I were becoming _such_ good friends! I'd hate to leave her side."

Catelyn hesitated, looking at her daughter, then at Theon.

"I'll keep her safe, Lady Stark," Theon replied to the unasked question. "You can count on me."

"As will I," Loras said. "Knights of the Realm aren't just for show, you know."

"And then King Robb can keep all of us safe," Margaery added. "While I see what an independent North truly looks like."

Excitement ran through Sansa's veins thicker than her blood. _King Robb_.

"We couldn't let you in the main camp," Theon said reluctantly. "We've a war going on and the enemy–"

"Yes, I know," Margaery replied. "But surely we could camp close by, could we not?"

 _Camp near enough to the Starks to meet Robb,_ Margaery clearly meant. "I think that's a splendid idea," Sansa said, watching her mother carefully. "I would so love getting to know Margaery better. I have so few friends outside of the North."

But Catelyn's gaze was fixed on the only person at their table who hadn't spoken: Baelish. "And what do _you_ plan to do, Lord Baelish? Remain here like a specter haunting me?"

Baelish spread his hands wide. "I serve at the Tyrells' convenience. I could always accompany Margaery and leave you here in peace."

Immediately, all her anger at him for betraying Ned rushed forth in full force. "You will not go within ten _leagues_ of Robb–!"

"He will not, my lady," Margaery said calmly. "My father is perfectly happy to continue hosting him here, if it pleases you."

Catelyn looked away, pulling herself under control. Finally she gave a tear-filled nod. "Be quick about it, then. The sooner you can be off, the sooner I can be back in Winterfell with my sons."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to the standard Tues/Thurs updates next week, but you guys have just made this story my most commented/kudosed/bookmarked/viewed EVER in the space of a month, so the least I can do is an extra chapter to commemorate that. Thanks again! ;)

Sansa almost couldn't believe she was back on the road so soon, with Theon up ahead, Loras talking his ear off for details on every one of Robb's battles, and Margaery alternatively chatting with Sansa or enjoying how a simple smile could make the Stark soldiers fall over themselves attending to her every whim.

Even Sansa had to admit it was entertaining, watching a man old enough to be her father blush at a simple 'Thank you' from the Tyrell girl. Margaery turned her conspiratorial smile on Sansa and she couldn't help sharing in Margaery's amusement.

But a large, grey and white shape sidling up to Sansa's horse quickly drew Margaery's eye.

"Is she… tame?" Margaery asked, watching the direwolf fixedly.

"Oh, not at all," Sansa replied happily. "She is _good_ , though. You've no reason to fear her."

Margaery looked over at Sansa, squinting in the sun. "Is there a difference?"

"Quite," Sansa replied, unable to fight a conspiratorial smile of her own. "She's gotten quite a liking for Lannister flesh. I wouldn't call that _tame_ , would you?"

"And Gold Cloaks!" Theon called from where he rode ahead with Loras, apparently listening in. Sansa had to smile. Her statement had been fiction; Theon's was pure truth.

Margaery swallowed. "I wouldn't call that tame, no. But is she safe… for example, to pet?"

"Perfectly," Sansa replied. "To anyone who means me no harm. Would you like to?"

She could see as Margaery steeled herself, shoving her fear back behind iron gates. "Yes. I would." Tossing the waves of her hair over her shoulders like a mane, Margaery rode her horse around the other side of Sansa's, approaching the direwolf.

"Do keep me from getting mauled if you can, Sansa, dear," Margaery said, trying to sound amused through her fear. "My father would be so _very_ disappointed."

"I will do my best," Sansa replied. "Robb would be disappointed, as well. We told him we were bringing him a beauty."

The direwolf turned to watch as Margaery approached. Slowly, Margaery offered her hand down to Lady. Around them, all the soldiers of their caravan watched, including Loras and Theon, up ahead.

Lady sniffed Margaery's hand. Then, without warning, she licked it. Margaery gasped in surprise, pulling her hand away.

Sansa grinned. "She likes you better than Theon. Pet her, if you want."

"I bloody told you she didn't like me!" Theon called back.

The girls ignored him. Still in awe, Margaery gently lowered her hand to the direwolf's coat. It sunk into the deep fur, disappearing. But Lady made no protest, her tongue hanging happily out of her mouth as she walked. Margaery stroked the wolf again, her amazement only growing.

There was movement in the woods. In a flash, Lady was off, darting among the trees. Something squealed. Then, up ahead, they spotted her again – chasing a boar.

"Magnificent creatures," Margaery breathed. "Yet again, I feel the loss of having a rose for a sigil. I heard every Stark has one? Are all of them this big?"

"Grey Wind, Robb's, is the biggest," Sansa replied. "But yes, we all have them. Arya has hers back at camp and the other three are with my brothers, in the North."

"Three?" Margaery asked. "I thought you only had two younger brothers?"

Sansa hesitated. Bastards weren't uncommon, especially in the Reach and Dorne, but raising one as a sibling to their trueborn children was unheard of anywhere. "I have a bastard half-brother, Jon Snow. He serves at the Wall and we're all quite proud of him."

Her opinion of him had changed so radically from what she would have said in her previous life that Sansa was uncomfortable even including the 'half.'

"We are?" Theon said, turning around to make a face of exaggerated disgust. "When did this happen?"

"It was a miracle, really," Sansa said to Theon with her sweetest smile. "The moment we got him away from your bad influence, Jon turned into something respectable."

Theon waved her away, even as Margaery and Loras laughed.

Margaery shook her head. "And to think all this time, I'd been told the North was rigid and humorless. What other lies has everyone been telling me?"

"Maybe they meant 'frigid,'" Theon said. "And all this time, you simply misheard them."

After they'd camped for the evening, Theon pulled Sansa aside to where they couldn't be overheard. "I'll ride ahead to Robb first thing tomorrow. Then, after I've sent him back your way, I'll…" He swallowed. "Go my own. If you're sure, that is."

Sansa couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to: she pulled Theon into a hug. "Yes. Thank you. That's brilliant, even. Everyone will assume you're still back at Robb's camp and won't notice you've left."

Theon grinned. "Of course it's brilliant; I thought of it."

Rolling her eyes, she released him. "You're sure you'll be alright? You remember everything you need to tell Davos?"

"Yes, Mother," he said, though he was still smiling.

"This will be the last time I see you again for awhile, won't it?" Sansa said.

"There's no need to get dramatic," Theon huffed. "It'll only be for a week or two."

 _Assuming everything goes perfectly_. Which, in Sansa's experience, was less likely than rising from the dead.

Her hands reached around the back of her neck, fumbling with the clasp. "Then, here. I'd like to give you something."

She pulled out a delicate chain from beneath the neckline of her dress. Then, opening her hand, she offered it to him.

A lion reared on the front of the golden locket.

"From the Lannisters?" Theon said with disgust. Then, abruptly he remembered. "Sansa, I can't," he said shocked that she would offer her most precious possession. He closed her hand around it. "I can't take your last image of your father."

Sansa remained unmoved. "I expect it back, Theon Greyjoy."

"Sansa–"

"He was your father, too," she replied. "You deserve to remember him."

"I have a father," Theon said. "Balon Greyjoy–"

"So remember both of them," Sansa said. Slowly, she removed her hand from within his, offering the necklace to him once again.

Theon ran his finger along the golden lion. It had been almost a year since Ned had passed. He wondered if his memory of the man had already begun to fade, wondered how accurate the likeness was inside.

But his eyes flicked up to Sansa's, who was watching him too carefully. He couldn't look, not in front of her, not when it might rip apart the few seams holding him together–

"To refuse a lady's favor is a grave insult, Theon Greyjoy." Her eyes danced as she spoke, knowing he would never dare.

Theon snatched the necklace, shoving it into his pocket. "There. Happy, my lady?"

"It's supposed to be worn proudly–"

"I'm not 'proudly wearing' anything with a Lannister crest," he sneered. "Make something with a kraken or a direwolf and I'll consider it."

Sansa positively beamed. "Alright. I'll have one for you by the time you get back."

Theon set off for Robb’s camp at first light. By midday, he'd arrived. All around, the Stark soldiers watched as he rode past, confused as to why he was alone. Theon ignored them, heading straight to Robb’s tent.

He flung open the tent flap. "They're here, Robb."

Robb sat up with a start. He'd fallen asleep over his desk. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes. "Who are?"

"The Tyrells. Margaery. They're here to meet you."

Robb finally seemed to process who was talking to him. "Theon!" he grinned, standing to clap him on the shoulder. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

"Well, Margaery heard good reports. She came to investigate them herself," Theon said with an answering grin.

Finally, his words penetrated through Robb's fog of sleep. All the blood drained from Robb's face. "She's here? To see me? And I'm…" Frantically, he patted down his tunic, trying to rub out creases.

Theon laughed. "She's a half day's ride east. They'll camp just shy of us, so as not to spy on the troops."

"That's…" With a deep breath, Robb tried to pull himself together. "That's very good. Thank you, Theon."

Theon snorted. "Don't thank me. Your sister practically arranged the whole thing. She and Margaery are 'such close friends!'" he said in an imitation of Margaery's words. Theon laughed as his friend kept panicking. "You're fine, Robb! Just maybe… wash your face, or something. You've got some ink on your cheek."

With a glare, Robb strode for the exit of the tent.

This was his chance, Theon realized. He could leave without Robb or anyone other than Sansa being the wiser. Yet…

The first thing Sansa had told him, the thing that had shaken Theon to his boots, was the notion that he would betray Robb. And yet here he was, contemplating a friendly betrayal on Sansa's orders. Catelyn had probably thought similarly when she'd released the Kingslayer, in that time that had thankfully never happened.

"Robb," Theon said. "One more thing."

About to exit the tent, Robb stopped, looking back at him.

"Who would you rather see on the Iron Throne? Joffrey or Stannis?"

Robb snorted. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Theon fixed him with a rare, serious gaze. "So if I found a way to help Stannis, to help him win it, you'd approve?"

Instantly, he had Robb's full attention. Robb walked back from the opening, stepping close to Theon. "What do you know? How did you find out about it?"

Theon shook his head. "You're making an alliance with the Tyrells. They _loathe_ Stannis. If they ask you about him, it's best if you don't have to lie."

Robb stared down at his boots, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he looked up. "Go. I'll cover for your absence. Don't let them catch you."

Theon grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Robb pulled him into a brotherly embrace. Theon returned it, glad that for once, he wouldn't be letting his sworn brother down.

Sansa sat on a camp chair in the shade of a canopy, her embroidery in her lap, her needle diving through the cloth as gracefully as a dolphin. Lady lay at her feet, enjoying the shade.

"Oh, that's beautiful!" Margaery said from the camp chair next to her.

Sansa frowned down at her needlework. So far, she'd made a grey lump. "Thank you, my lady," Sansa replied.

Margaery didn't notice. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon west of them.

"How about we play a game?" Sansa said. "To pass the time while we wait. I Spy with my Little Eye?"

"A fine idea," Margaery replied without looking away.

Sansa watched the girl, growing more amused by the second. "I spy something green."

Camped on a grassy hillside, with forests of trees in the distance, there were two easy options. Margaery said nothing.

"He's probably in a meeting," Sansa replied to the unasked question. "It's very busy work, running a war."

"I'm sure," Margaery said. Suddenly remembering where she was, she turned to Sansa with a smile. "Oh, your embroidery is simply marvelous! Wherever did you learn to stitch so evenly?"

Sansa repressed her amusement at receiving the same compliment twice.

Both girls startled as Lady jumped up from next to Sansa's feet. Sitting on her haunches, the direwolf let out an ear-splitting howl.

Sansa and Margaery covered their ears. Loras rushed out of the tent pavilion behind them, his sword drawn. But there seemed to be no cause to the howls, no danger at hand. Loras sheathed his sword.

Lady's howls died. The direwolf waited, staring fixedly into the west.

Off in the distance, two howls answered back.

Sansa grinned. "That's them!" Dropping her needlework, she rushed to the edge of their hill to stare. Margaery rushed with her, staring just as eagerly.

At this distance, the party approaching was little more than dark shapes. Yet Sansa was fairly sure she could pick out two horses at the front of the group, two wolves loping along on either side of them.

"He's brought Arya," Sansa said with delight.

Margaery had no response, staring fixedly at the approaching shapes. Then, as the riders finally drew close enough to make out Robb, at their front, Arya, at his side, and five soldiers behind, a sound escaped from Margaery, so soft that Sansa almost thought she'd imagined it.

"Oh," Margaery breathed. "Theon wasn't lying."

It took Sansa a moment to figure out what she had meant. The horses had picked up into a trot and Robb was clearly visible. In his light armor, his summer furs around his shoulders, and casually astride his white warhorse, Robb looked every inch a king. A crown couldn't have done him justice.

Clearing her throat, Margaery turned to Sansa. "Let's go inside the pavilion, shall we? Loras can bring them in and we can get out of this weather."

The weather was exceedingly pleasant, even by the Reach's standards. "Yes, of course, my lady," Sansa replied. "It wouldn't do to look too eager."

Margaery leveled her with a glare. As Sansa's smile only widened, Margaery laced her arm through Sansa's with a laugh of her own. "Oh hush, you. Expose me to your brother and I'll have a rug made from your hide."

Still laughing, the girls headed for the tent. The whinny of a horse stopped them before they could slip inside. Robb dismounted with one graceful motion, tossing his reins to a hostler. He took a step forward and stopped, frozen to the spot. Margaery had caught him with her eyes. He could no more move than a rock could roll uphill.

Sansa stepped towards him. "Robb, might I introduce Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, the Jewel of the Reach." Margaery gave a little start at that; it was not a title she had and both girls knew it. "Lady Margaery, my brother: Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."

Margaery dropped into a flawless curtsey. The idea that she suffered from nerves of any sort was swept away behind manners both so perfect and so natural that she could have been an incarnation of The Maiden herself. "We are honored by your presence, Your Grace. Might I introduce my brother to you: Ser Loras Tyrell, Heir of Highgarden."

Sansa had forgotten him but of course Margaery hadn't. Robb nodded at Loras, who nodded in return. Behind Robb, someone loudly cleared their throat.

"And might I introduce my sister, Arya Stark," Robb said with a smile, finally prodded into remembering that he had a tongue.

Arya skidded out from behind him, dropping a mockery of a curtsey in a dress already mud-splattered and with a tear up one side. She strode straight up to Loras. "I saw you fight in the Tourney of the Hand. You beat the Mountain."

"Well, yes," Loras said, clearly pleased that she remembered. "I beat him in the joust. But–"

"How do you learn how to joust?" Arya said. "Are there practice dummies you can stab?"

"Sort of. There are quintains–"

"Shall we retire inside?" Margaery interjected. "There are refreshments set out for all to enjoy. It was not a long ride from camp, perhaps, but I expect any reprieve from war might be refreshing?"

With a smile, Robb followed after her. "It would indeed, my lady."

"Please," Margaery said, slipping inside the tent. "Call my Margaery, Your Grace."

"You are too kind, my lady."

Abruptly, both Robb and Margaery realized Sansa still stood watching them with an amused smile.

"Sansa, dear, do join us," Margaery said. "I know how much you enjoy lemon cake and ours is simply to die for."

"Oh, but I couldn't," Sansa replied, unable to hide her smirk. "I haven't seen Arya in so long and we sisters–"

"Arya's fine," Robb cut in. Indeed she was, fencing with an invisible sword as Loras laughed and corrected her technique. "Your brother misses you, too."

Panic set around Robb's eyes at the idea of being left alone to Margaery.

With a laugh, Sansa pressed a kiss to Robb’s cheek as she swept past him into the tent. "And I miss him, as well."

"You must tell me all about the North!" Margaery said as servants set out plates around the low table.

Robb stood, looking uncomfortably down at the array of cushions. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Sansa cleared her throat, subtly drawing Robb's eye. Slowly, she sat, demonstrating how to recline with ease.

Robb mimicked her. His scabbard caught on the cushions, throwing him off balance. Sansa reached for him. Robb caught himself, tilting his sword out of the way so that he could sit on the cushions. Still, he looked uneasily around him, unwilling to settle back and relax.

"These blasted cushions are the Dornish way, unfortunately," Margaery said. She'd _liked_ the cushions, earlier, when she'd shown them to Sansa. "Designed for spears that are easily set aside, not the more elegant Northern blades."

Robb laughed uneasily. "I'll not walk unarmed into a stranger's tent, no matter how much I like them."

"I find it hard to believe you would ever be unarmed, Your Grace." Margaery tipped her head, staring over Robb's shoulder. "Not with Grey Wind looking after you."

Robb turned; his wolf had followed him into the tent. It lay on the cushions behind him, staring straight at Margaery. Robb stretched a hand back to scratch him behind the ear; Grey Wind's gaze never wavered from Margaery.

"I'm sorry," Robb said, shifting to stand. "I'll try to make him leave; I know he makes ladies uncomfortable–"

"Oh, don't bother for my sake," Margaery said, sounding perfectly unconcerned. "Sansa's Lady and I made friends on the way over here, didn't we, Sansa?"

Surprised, Robb looked at Sansa for confirmation.

Sansa shrugged. "Lady didn't look at Margaery like she tasted better than Lannisters."

"Grey Wind!" Robb reprimanded.

With a huff, the direwolf rested his head on his paws, looking away. The moment Robb turned around, Grey Wind flicked his eyes back to Margaery.

Margaery nodded at the servant, who stepped out of the tent.

"Robb," Sansa prompted. "Margaery was asking about the North."

"I was, indeed," Margaery said, taking a sip of her wine. "I've been to Dorne and the Crownlands, but never to the North. Tell me, Your Grace, what is it like being surrounded by ice and snow? I've never even seen a proper winter down South."

Robb smiled. "It's not so bad, really. There's always furs to keep you warm and until you've seen a Northern winter, you can never understand the warmth and comfort of a great fire roaring in the hearth, sipping mulled wine and spiced cider."

"I've always heard people extolling the beauty of the South," Sansa added. "But to me, nothing can ever surpass our mountains, all covered in white and towering on the horizon. The Vale is impressive but too craggy to be properly beautiful."

"You've been to the Vale, Sansa?" Margaery asked.

"Er, no," Sansa quickly covered. _Not in this lifetime_. "But my aunt lives there."

Robb snorted. "I'd not call her 'aunt.'"

Margaery tipped her head, watching him. "You disapprove of Lysa Arryn?"

Robb grimaced. "I should not have mentioned it. Let us talk of more pleasant topics."

"Of course, Your Grace," Margaery said. "We will say no more on it if you wish. But you've no need to pretend you're not fighting a war, not on my account." She dipped her head, demurely hiding her eyes. "My late husband Renly was a casualty of it."

"Aye, my lady, that is the cost of war," Robb replied, not sure how to respond to this Southern beauty.

Sansa herself still wasn't sure of Margaery. Clearly, she was intrigued by Robb, but intrigue would not be enough to commit Tyrell troops; would not be enough to win a war.

The servant came back in carrying a covered dish. At Margaery's nod, he brought the platter over to her.

Margaery lifted the lid. Inside sat a raw side of beef, dripping juices.

"I had thought, perhaps, Your Grace, Grey Wind might like to be included in the refreshments?" Margaery seemed perfectly unconcerned, but Sansa saw her gaze fixed upon Robb, studying him like an owl watching a rabbit hole.

Robb laughed. "I've never known bribery to work on a direwolf. You're welcome to try."

Margaery stood, walking toward where Grey Wind lay. The direwolf tracked her with his eyes, never lifting his head from his paws.

Slowly, Margaery set the platter down in front of him. Grey Wind never flinched. He continued staring at Margaery, even as she backed away.

"How unusual!" Margaery said. "I've never known a dog to refuse meat."

"He's not a dog," Robb said, with a half-smile.

"Of course he's isn't," Margaery replied, settling back on her cushions. "Direwolves are far nobler beasts–"

"I wouldn't say that," Sansa said, unable to repress her smirk. "Just more clever."

She tipped her head toward Grey Wind. The platter in front of him was empty. Meat juice stained the fur around his mouth, yet his head lay on his paws as if he had never moved.

Margaery clapped her hands. "Oh, how delightful! A clever beast indeed!" She turned to the servant. "Another, for our furry friend."

Grey Wind's eyes still tracked Margaery, but when she wasn't looking, he gave a single wag of his tail.

"You've an uncommon liking for direwolves," Robb said, trying to take her measure. "How did a girl from the Reach come by that?"

Sansa had wondered the same thing. It had taken a great deal of nerve to approach Lady as she had and here Margaery was doing it a second time, with a meaner wolf.

"Well, you see, Your Grace, I've always been jealous of the Houses with proper animals. My grandmother often complains about how ridiculous our sigil is. Who fears a rose? A direwolf, on the other hand…" Margaery smiled admiringly at Grey Wind.

The moment Margaery smiled, Sansa knew. She'd seen Margaery give that smile before – and it had been directed at Joffrey. Whenever Joffrey was proud of something particularly terrible, Margaery would smile that smile of comradery, telling him that she was the only one on his side.

Margaery hated direwolves, if Sansa had to guess. But Margaery knew the Starks liked them and knew how to make herself stand out.

"Robb," Sansa rudely interrupted some discussion on wolves that she was sure Margaery couldn't have cared less about. "Whatever happened that time Father took you and Theon and Jon to White Harbor? I've always hated that I was too young to go."

"White Harbor!" Robb said and laughed. "It must be years since I've thought of that trip. Oh, it was delightful, with all the stalls and sea air and the trinkets from Essos. Why, I must have seen a thousand people in the fish markets, all selling 'the freshest fish in the North' and trying to make it so by out-yelling their neighbors. I know it's smaller than King's Landing or Oldtown, where the two of you have been, but there was something fantastic about seeing even stoic Northerners succumbing to city life."

Robb continued talking as Margaery continued listening. As she asked pertinent questions, he grew more animated. And all the while, a gleam grew in Margaery's eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

"That's him, right there," the bartender said, pointing to an ordinary gray-haired man.

"You sure?" Theon asked again. " _Ser_ Davos Seaworth."

The barman shrugged, picking up a glass. "Don't care if you believe me."

Slowly, Theon approached the man. Three other men sat at his table in the corner of the tavern, all looking at least a little disreputable and laughing heartily with the supposed knight.

"Ser Davos?" Theon asked, standing in front of his table. "Can I have a word?"

"Aye," Davos said with a half-smile. "You can even have more than one." He gestured to an empty chair. "Sit, join us, my friend."

Theon hesitated. He didn't exactly want to tell a group of men that he represented a rebel king any of Stannis's men would likely despise. "Alone, that is."

Davos looked at his companions but they were already standing from the table, clapping him on the back as they left.

Theon slipped into the empty seat. Davos leaned forward, some of the joviality gone from his face. "Now, you had better be worth my time since you made my friends leave. Who did you say you are?"

"Theon Greyjoy," he said, gesturing to the serving girl for two ales. "And I come on behalf of Robb Stark."

Davos spluttered into his mug. "Stark, you say? You want me to take you to Stannis, to treat with him and you find me _here_? Bloody terrible sense of humor, the Starks."

Theon shook his head. "I trust you to bring my terms to Stannis."

Davos set his mug down, watching Theon carefully. "Do you, now? And how am I to know you represent the Young Wolf?"

The serving girl set the two mugs down. Davos still hadn't finished the one in his hand and didn't flick even a glance at the new mug. Theon took a long drink of his own. They were already off to a bad start and he had little else to say that Davos would like.

"I'm not here to negotiate a full treaty," Theon said. "Robb won't bend the knee."

"Then he's Stannis's enemy," Davos replied.

"Maybe," Theon shrugged, taking a drink. "But as long as the Lannisters are his enemy _first_ , the Starks are more than happy to be acquaintances with your king."

Davos stared at him. "Keep talking."

Theon leaned closer. "They want two things. The first: the right to mine dragonglass from Stannis's island of Dragonstone."

Davos frowned. "A near useless rock. They can have it at a fair wage."

Theon nodded. He didn't even know why Sansa wanted it, but she'd been desperate about the point. A fair wage would be a bargain.

"The second," he continued, "is that they want to help you win the Battle of the Blackwater."

Davos laughed. "They want to join forces, is that it? They think a few swords in Lannister guts will make Stannis their ally?"

Theon shook his head. "They have their hands full with Lannisters where they are. They're happy to let Stannis do all the killing."

"How do they plan to help, then, boy?" Davos said with a smirk.

Theon grinned back. "They've come across knowledge of the Lannisters' defenses of King's Landing. They're willing to trade that knowledge for the protection of one of their allies."

"And who's that?" Davos asked.

Theon swallowed. According to Sansa, their 'ally' had never raised a Stark banner and would be furious that they were trying to save him. But no one gave things away for free, so the Starks might as well try to get _something_ for their knowledge. "Tyrion Lannister. The Imp."

Davos laughed. He finished his ale in a swig, then picked up the mug Theon had bought for him and started in on it. Then he laughed again. "Are you addled, boy? That's Joffrey's Acting Hand of the King. No. We'll not trade for the Imp."

Theon shrugged, looking unconcerned. "How do you think we got such accurate knowledge of the defenses?"

Davos stared at him, stared hard. He drummed his knuckle-less fingers on the table. "What's the offer?"

Theon couldn't fight down his grin. He _had_ him. "I tell you a ridiculous story that sounds too outlandish to be true, you laugh at me, but when you get to the Blackwater, if that outlandish story happens to be true, you try your best to spare the Imp."

Davos frowned. "You're relying entirely on my word."

Theon nodded. "Your word and Stannis's."

"There's no assurances, even if we _do_ try to protect the Imp, that we can get him out alive before some foot soldier stabs him. It's a war, boy."

"I've fought in my share of battles," Theon had to interject. "If he dies, the North will accept fair compensation."

"Fair?" Davos frowned.

"A king sitting on the Iron Throne is inclined to be generous." Theon took another drink, truly unconcerned. "Do you want our knowledge or not?"

Another added benefit, one Sansa hadn't said, is this negotiation let Stannis know that the North was a powerhouse of spying intelligence. One that any wise King would not cross lightly.

"Alright," Davos said. "Tell me your outlandish story. If it happens to be true, you have my word that we'll spare the Imp if we can."

Theon leaned closer, savoring the drama of it all. "There will be a ship in Blackwater Bay, without lights on it of any kind. It'll be so dark that you'll barely see it before you stumble into it. And when all of Stannis's boats are clustered around it, a Lannister archer will light it on fire." Theon took a swig of his ale. "The boat will be filled with wildfire. It'll pour out gallons into the Bay before it explodes."

"Gallons!" Davos laughed, as Theon had warned him he would. "That would cost tens of thousands of gold dragons!"

"Closer to a million, actually," Theon replied. "Ten thousand jars of Wildfire. What do you estimate that costing?"

 _That_ made Davos pause. "You can't be serious."

"They pull the Royal Fleet out of the harbor for this," Theon continued. "If there's even a chance I'm right, you can use this knowledge to slaughter them."

Davos shook his head. "Little chance of that, Greyjoy. I'm afraid the next time you see your friend the Imp's head, it'll be decorating a spike."

With a nod, Davos stood, tossing some coins on the table for his own ales.

Theon stayed staring down at the coins on the table and the rings of water the mugs had left behind in the wood. Well, _that_ was a failure. Sansa had said Stannis heeded Davos's counsel, but the Onion Knight had turned out to be nothing more than a skeptical fisherman. What use would that be to the Starks?

Loud laughter across the tavern drew Theon's eye.

"Look at this!" a man said, holding up a silver pitcher embossed with a fist. "Lord Glover's personal effects! I've always wanted to feel like a highborn lad when I pour my ale."

More laughter followed as the man pantomimed pouring their drinks.

At the Battle of the Twins, when Theon had been knocked to the ground with a Lannister bearing down on him, it had been Lord Glover's spear that sprouted in the man's stomach. And when Glover had been stabbed in the arm for the gesture, it had been Theon's sword that had ridded that Lannister of his bowels. Later, getting stitched up across from each other, Theon had nodded at Glover; Glover had nodded back. It was all that needed to be said.

"Where did you get that?" Theon called to the man with the silver pitcher.

The man grinned. "From an ironborn down in Seaguard. Selling candlesticks, paintings, the lot. Apparently the Glovers got more loot stashed away than they let on."

 _Ironborn_. Theon had heard that the ironborn had attacked the North, but not that they'd sacked Deepwood Motte. The Glovers were a loyal and strong family. It would be a major blow to Robb's cause.

Theon stood, tossing coins of his own on the table. He could ride back to Robb, could fight in his battles, could be his trusted errand boy – fit to treat with lords and rescue sisters, but god forbid he do more than that. Or… he could do something to help win Robb's war for him.

Casks of wine and a treaty signed with the Stark seal waited back in Robb's camp, set aside to offer Balon Greyjoy, but Theon would have to do without. He was their Heir. He shouldn't have to come bearing gifts.

His hand slipped to the necklace in his pocket, tracing over the Lannister crest. Sansa had warned him that he'd betray Robb, that he'd fail, but Theon wondered how much of her warning still held true. He wouldn't touch Winterfell, not with ten thousand men at his back. Bran and Rickon… well, if they weren't quite _his_ brothers, they were Robb's brothers, were _Sansa's_ brothers. Even if he wouldn't die protecting them, the least he could do was not put them in danger. The 'other' Theon, the one Sansa had known, had died for Bran. Why would he spit upon that sacrifice?

Still…

His fingers ran across the shape of the lion once again.

Theon turned to the barman. "Where's the nearest maester? I need to get a letter off."

"Arya's been spending too much time around that blacksmith boy," Robb said, rifling through the papers on his desk. "While Mother's away, do you think you can do something about it?"

Sansa smiled from her chair next to him, adding stitches to her embroidery. "I'd leave them be."

"Oh, really?" Robb said, looking pained. "And why's that, Sansa? She can't play with butcher's boys and blacksmiths all her days. She's a lady and sooner or later she's got to start acting like it."

Sansa's smile widened.

"Don't look at me like that," Robb said with a groan. "You know something, don't you? Stop being smug and spit it out."

Sansa couldn't stop her grin. "He's Robert Baratheon's bastard. The only one left alive. If Stannis dies…"

Robb ran a hand down his face. "By the gods. He'd be the heir to the Iron Throne." He glared at Sansa through his fingers. "How long have you known?"

Sansa's smile vanished. "Father discovered it back in King's Landing," she said softly. "It's part of what got him killed." Stuffing down her sorrow, she continued on. "Not only do I think it's a good idea to let Arya spend time with that blacksmith… I think we should let her train in arms. Officially."

Robb dropped his papers. "You're not serious."

"I've never been more serious," Sansa replied. "Brienne's here in camp and she's a fully-titled lady – the Heir of the Sapphire Isle. Maege and Dacey Mormont fight for your cause. Are they not suitable warriors? I'd be afraid to tell them to their faces."

"It's different," Robb said, with that pained tone he reserved _just_ for her. "She's Arya _Stark_. She'd be a laughingstock among the men. She'd make _us_ a laughingstock."

"She's the sister of their king," Sansa replied. "They wouldn't dare laugh. And even if they did," she continued, overriding Robb's protests, "They wouldn't be laughing for long. Arya will be phenomenal."

"You can't know that," Robb scoffed.

"I _can_ ," Sansa replied with assurance. From the stubborn set of her brother's face, she could tell it hadn't come close to convincing him. Immediately, she changed tack. "Who's going to protect me when I'm off and married to some foreign lord? You, locked far away in Winterfell? Uncle Edmure, the most useless lord in all the Riverlands? Or perhaps Aunt Lysa?"

That last prod made Robb look murderous, so she continued on before his dislike of Lysa distracted him. "Theon has protected me so far but he's _not_ your bannerman; he's _not_ a knight. It's his duty to rule the Iron Islands, not look after your wayward sister. So who, then?"

"Ser Rodrik Cassel and Brienne of Tarth are both sworn to our House," Robb replied. "We're not helpless, Sansa."

Sansa shook her head. "Brienne is sworn to Mother, not to the Starks. Ser Rodrik will defend Winterfell, as is his duty." With a deep breath, she pressed ahead. It was now or never. "I want Arya."

Robb made a face. "She's _twelve_ , Sansa. She's not a knight."

"Then she's too young to marry off, anyway," Sansa said, though she herself had been betrothed to Joffrey when barely older. "Take the chance to let her train while she's here. If she's a disappointment, I'll tutor her in embroidery and all the lady-like arts myself."

Robb stared at his sister. Slowly, he shook his head. "Sometimes I don't recognize you anymore. It's like a different girl came back from King's Landing and my little sister is still trapped there with the Lannisters."

"Robb…" Sansa said, not sure what solace she could offer. It was more true than she liked to admit.

He shook his head again, skimming through another supply list that had been dumped on his desk. "She's yours; in warfare or embroidery, it'll be your job to look after her."

Sansa beamed. "Thank you, Robb. You won't regret this."

"Oh, I know I won't," Robb said. Finally, he grinned. "You're the one that'll have to explain to Mother."

Other than her one trip back to camp with Robb, Sansa knew it was her duty to spend the rest of her time with the Tyrells. Banned from the main camp as they were, any chance of the Tyrells having a pleasant time lay entirely with Sansa. Robb could only be spared from the war so often.

"Lady!" Margaery greeted as Sansa's direwolf ran up to her. Satisfied with a lick of Margaery's hand, Lady dashed back into the surrounding woods. "She's a precious thing, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Sansa said. Though, with a slight smile of her own, she couldn't keep from adding, "You don't have to pretend to like direwolves, you know."

"Of course I like them," Margaery replied. "I love Lady and Grey Wind's warming up to me. Why, just the other day, he…"

Sansa continued staring, continued smiling her knowing smile. "They're vicious creatures and they only like Starks. One of Robb's bannermen is missing fingers because he pulled his sword on Robb and Grey Wind got to him first. It's only natural to be terrified of direwolves. We all understand."

Margaery stared at Sansa, trying to puzzle her out. Finally, she admitted defeat. "How could you tell?"

Sansa shrugged. "When you hate something, you try too hard to hide it. You're the most flawless liar I know but no one's perfect."

"What a lovely compliment!" Margaery laughed, hooking her arm through Sansa's. "Do you know who the most flawless liar _I_ know is?"

Sansa shook her head.

Margaery smiled. "You."

"Me?!" Sansa laughed as her panic rose. "You're mistaken, my lady. I could never–"

"While I might try too hard to hide it," Margaery said, ignoring her. "You don't try at all. You flounder and prattle and act to all as if you're drowning – a pitiable little thing." Margaery locked her stare on Sansa, not letting her wriggle her way out. "And then whatever comes next is the neatest lie told with the straightest face." Margaery smiled – cold and pitiless. "Am I wrong?"

"I spent a great deal of time in King's Landing," Sansa slowly replied. "They're all liars, there."

Margaery tugged Sansa closer. "See? Exactly what I was saying. A shade of truth hiding a well of untruth. You were thirteen when you went there – fourteen when you left. When I was fourteen, I cried when my cousin put a knife to my pigtails."

"Your cousin wasn't Joffrey," Sansa replied.

"No," Margaery said softly. "Thank the gods for that."

The sound of horses galloping towards them drew both girls' attention. Robb drew rein in front of them, not even dismounting. His beard was untrimmed and his tunic bore sweat stains – he'd slept in it again. On his heels followed thirty men, armored and ready for battle.

Loras stepped out of the tent at the sound of horses and Robb inclined his head to both Tyrell siblings. "I'm sorry my lady, my lord," Robb said. "We've caught a Lannister scout in the woods and a larger party could be behind him. You're not safe here. Follow me back to the main camp."

"We don't take orders from you," Loras said.

"No, my lord, you do not," Robb said, looking vaguely amused. "As you've twenty men here and I've twenty thousand in camp, it seemed the wiser course. Carry on – as you will."

Robb turned his horse away, about to gallop off but Margaery stepped in front of her brother. "Your Grace, we are honored by the offer and will of course accompany you." She turned to one of her men. "Saddle our horses at once. Break camp and follow behind as quickly as possible. No one shall know we were here."

Knuckling his forehead, the man hurried off. Behind him, a saddle was already being slung over the back of Sansa's horse.

Sansa stepped close to her brother. "Robb," she whispered up to him, "Weren't we worried about the Tyrells seeing our camp? Our numbers? Our wounded?"

"Yes," Robb said, watching as Margaery climbed onto her horse with the grace of a queen. "And we're also worried about losing Tyrell support. Getting both of their heirs killed would tend to do that."

Sansa saddled up behind Robb and immediately the company moved out. Managing to make it look accidental, Margaery found herself riding next to him as they made their way back to camp.

"Your Grace, you do us a great honor by coming here yourself," Margaery said. "But would it not have been easier to send a messenger?" Of course she hadn't missed his stained clothes, nor the haste it showed he left in.

Stunned, Robb turned to her. "You are my honored guests. What sort of man would I be, summoning you about like servants?"

"A king, Your Grace," Margaery replied with a smile.

"Aye," Robb said with a laugh in return. "But I'm not _your_ king, am I?"

"No, Your Grace." As ever, her smile could have hidden a thousand secrets. "Not yet."

As they rode, Robb had eyes for no one but her.

Soon enough, the camp was before them. Sentries saluted as they passed. The soldiers walking the muddy paths between tents parted readily for their king and his procession.

"We have spare tents at the north end of camp," Robb said to Margaery. "You're welcome to them. If you'd prefer your own, talk to the quartermaster and he'll show you to open land."

"Your Grace!" a soldier shouted up to them as they rode past. "The smiths need more iron if they're to continue repairs. We're nearly out–"

"Lord Bolton will see to it," Robb replied. "Talk to him and I'll give any assistance he deems fit."

The man knuckled his forehead. "At once, Your Grace."

"The Young Wolf returns!" Lord Umber called out, a grin splitting his face. "Wish you'd brought back cows instead of more mouths to feed!"

Robb laughed. "We'll find you cows, Lord Umber. Don't you worry about our guests."

"Of course, Your Grace," Umber replied, still grinning. "Wouldn't dream of it."

When Margaery looked back, Sansa flashed her hand with the final two fingers bent to hide them. At Margaery's frown, Sansa tipped her head toward Umber. As they passed, he rested his hand on his belt, displaying his missing final fingers.

Margaery watched him with shock, remembering Sansa's story about Grey Wind removing fingers from a bannerman. Clearly, she had not expected him to be so prominent a lord, nor to have still remained loyal.

"Boy!" Umber yelled to one of the men manning a stew pot. "If I see you taste the stew one more time, I'll cut your tongue off to rid you of its distraction! I'd run you through myself if it'd save some meat for the rest of us!"

The man bent double over the pot, stirring faster and avoiding looking back at Umber.

"Lord Umber seems fond of you, Your Grace," Margaery said to Robb as their horses plodded through camp.

"Aye," Robb said with a laugh. "And I of him, now that he's stopped saying I'm so green I–" Robb cut off, remembering who he was talking to. "Now that he's stopped calling me green."

"That is admirable, Your Grace. Anyone can inherit respect from a title. Earning it is another matter entirely," Margaery replied.

Robb gave a wry smile, knowing flattery when he heard it. Margaery watched him and Sansa could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes as she recalculated.

A scream came from the tent up ahead. Robb swore. "I'm sorry, my lady, I should have taken you a different way–"

The scream grew louder and broke off in a wail. Sansa took a deep, steadying breath. The infirmary tent. Every time Robb fought, its numbers swelled. Passing it was never pleasant.

Lord Glover approached Robb's procession. "Your Grace, we can't wait any longer. Word from Deepwood Motte is worse than I'd thought. My family–" He broke off, covering his face to regain composure.

Robb swung from his horse, passing the reins to one of his men.

"Of course, Lord Glover," Robb replied. "I'll gather the other lords and we'll meet in my tent to discuss it." Glover walked off and Robb looked back at Margaery, torn.

"I'll see that the Tyrells have everything they could need," Sansa said. "You have enough on your plate as it is."

Robb flashed her a grateful smile and followed Glover.

But as Sansa turned to look back at Margaery, her horse's saddle was empty. "Where did she…"

Sansa was just in time to see Margaery's scarf trail across the mud and into the infirmary.

"Of bloody course," Sansa muttered, climbing off her own horse to follow after.

"I'll set up camp," Loras said, with a smile for his sister's antics.

"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said, following Margaery into the tent.

Margaery had barely been inside for a minute, yet already every spare eye in the tent was fixed upon her. Ignoring the bloodcurdling screams, the woman flitted between cots, offering a pat on the shoulder, a kind word and a smile, or a glass of water to the grateful soldiers as she passed.

Sansa couldn't help but be impressed. Impressed – and shamed, that the Princess of the North hadn't thought to come here earlier, herself. When men had fought for her at Winterfell, Sansa had been the first to visit the wounded, threading stitches with as neat a hand as the finest Maester. Of course, this time she'd been busy entertaining the Tyrells and trying to plan a course to victory for Robb, but that was no excuse. She was always busy; priorities were always priorities.

Off at the side of the tent, a strange woman caught Sansa's eye. She sat demurely between the cots, a book propped on her lap as she read out loud, her voice even amidst the moans from the men surrounding her. Sansa made her way towards the woman. With few ladies in the camp and fewer still unfamiliar, Sansa could guess who she was. "Lady Roslin Frey?" Sansa asked.

With a polite smile, Roslin closed the book. "Princess Sansa. It is a pleasure to finally meet."

More shame flooded Sansa. Yet another duty she'd ignored. "Thank you, Lady Roslin, for your care for our wounded. Your presence here is such a boon for the men."

"Yes, _our_ wounded, isn't it?" Though Roslin's words were polite, there was an edge to the way she said them. "These are Stark men today; last week, the wounded were Freys."

Sansa pulled a stool closer, dropping onto it. "Lady Roslin, your father's support has been valuable in the war–"

Roslin looked away. "Don't insult me, my lady. I know what _her_ presence means. The entire camp has done nothing but gossip over the Tyrells camped nearby all week."

Both women turned to watch Margaery, bending close to laugh with wounded soldiers. The men smiled up at her despite their eye patches and missing limbs.

Robb stepped into the tent and the wounded's attention immediately snapped to him. Men called out greetings, which he returned on his way directly to Margaery. She laughed at something he said, grabbing his arm. With her on his arm, Robb shook hands with every man he passed as Margaery offered her pretty words. And as quickly as he had entered, he left with Margaery, smiling broadly.

"You may not like my family," Roslin said in her quiet, firm voice. "But Frey men fought for the North. They _died_ for the North. And they'll be marching home."

There was nothing Sansa could say. The Frey's 4,000 was nothing compared to the Tyrell's 40,000 – with money and a fleet, to boot. But both women knew it wasn't just Margaery's soldiers Robb was choosing.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Sansa said.

"No," Roslin replied, standing. "You're not."


	13. Chapter 13

"My lady," one of the men said, striding toward Sansa. "We've just retrieved ravens from Riverrun. One of them was to you. From a Winafrid Snow?"

Sansa snatched the letter from him, unrolling it eagerly. She couldn't even wait to get back to her tent, simply stood in the middle of the muddy walkway as everyone else parted around her.

_Sansa,_

_The fisherman will let you fish off his island for a 'fair wage.' He doesn't like your friend but agreed to meet him if your introduction goes as planned._

_I'll be a little longer getting your necklace back to you than I said. I'm off to see my father. If there's anything I should know, write to me by name at his home._

_Winafrid_

Sansa stared at the letter, willing it to burst into flame, to not exist, for the words to form into any different shape. Slowly, she felt her Cersei-mask sliding into place as she looked up from the letter with dead, vicious eyes. "Thank you," she replied to the man, still standing there watching her. "Was there anything else?"

"No, my lady," he stuttered. "Your brother– His Grace wanted to talk to you after supper–"

"I'll be there," Sansa replied, striding off into her tent.

She stood in the middle of its emptiness, wishing she could scream. Wishing she were surrounded by stone walls and not cloth that every man in the camp could hear through.

Theon had gone back to Pyke. After everything, every change, every trust she had in him, it hadn't affected anything that mattered. He was back with the Greyjoys, enacting some new terrible scheme for her to defend against.

Still standing in the middle of her tent, Sansa clenched and unclenched her fists. A slow, deadly calm stole over her, freezing her anger into something more useful.

She was Sansa Stark, once Queen in the North, and her body would have to be cold and rotting before she let the loss of any one man stop her. No matter how much she'd grown to depend on him.

She strode to her writing desk, ignoring the vicious way she slammed parchment on the table and nearly tore the map of Westeros as she unfurled it.

Theon could wait. The rest of the world could not.

With the Tyrell alliance brewing, Sansa had to be more certain of her next moves than she had ever been. The Starks were still more vulnerable than she liked. Her mother with the Tyrells, Arya off any path she'd walked before, Bran and Rickon alone in Winterfell, and Jon up at the Wall, with no assurances whatsoever. Perhaps he'd die without a Red Priest around to resurrect him. Perhaps he'd join the Wildlings for good. Perhaps he'd keep his oaths and live out the rest of his days as a Man of the Watch.

_Don’t fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy; everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before._

Sansa _had_ seen most things before even without resorting to her imagination. Baelish's words were more useful now than they had ever been. She stared at the map of the kingdoms, going through her list of possibilities.

Dorne – two factions, either side could help them, but not significantly. They could be the grain of sand that tipped the scale in either direction.

The Stormlands – firmly in Stannis's grasp as the rightful heir. Stannis liked Starks as well as he liked anything but he hated rebels. After he gained the throne, he'd be coming for Robb's head. If Stannis died, Gendry would be next in line. But the kingdoms needed to be united to face Daenerys and the dead. Gendry couldn't do that. The Lannisters couldn't do it. Perhaps Stannis could.

The Reach – with Margaery still talking to Robb, there wasn't much else that needed to be said.

The Riverlands – her grandfather, Hoster Tully, would die any day, leaving Edmure in charge. A disastrous fate for the Riverlands but at least Edmure was loyal to Robb. If Edmure died, the Blackfish– No. Sansa refused to consider it, refused to be Baelish. Stupid as he was, Edmure was still her uncle. He'd have Stark support. And, if she could manage it, he'd have her protection against his own stupidity.

The Westerlands – 20,000 Lannister men were with Tywin at Harrenhal and the rest, under 10,000, split between the Mountain and Casterly Rock **.** Robb would keep the Mountain's half on the run. If he could hit the Mountain's troops before he ran to the castle, Robb could even continue on to take Casterly Rock. If, somehow, they could also keep Tywin from reinforcing King's Landing, Stannis would easily take it – with enough men to keep it, perhaps even from dragons.

Sansa took a deep breath, collecting her nerves. If Margaery made Robb push on to King's Landing to attempt to win the Iron Throne, Sansa's message to Davos and preventing Tywin's reinforcements would ensure that Stannis had enough men left that Robb would fail. Should she let Tywin reinforce so that the Lannisters and Baratheons could slaughter each other? Of course they needed every man against the dead and Daenerys, but a Stark on the Iron Throne could rally more troops for the fight in the North. Sansa had to consider… should Robb take the throne? Had she already failed her brother?

The Starks would be lucky to have 10,000 men left after taking Casterly Rock, even if the tricks she had hidden away worked perfectly. The Tyrells had 40,000 and could muster more if they truly needed it. But they were poorly equipped for a siege; still more poorly equipped for an assault by boat. Even assuming Stannis was the only man of his troops to survive the Battle of the Blackwater, he'd be doing nothing but recruiting more men the moment his rear touched the Iron Throne.

Even with the Tyrells reinforcing the Starks, Robb stood no chance. Stannis wouldn't need to match their numbers; he'd weather a siege better than any commander alive. He had done it before. With even a few thousand properly placed men, Stannis could hold the Starks and Tyrells off until dissent tore them apart and sent them home.

Sansa let out her breath. Her calculation to help Stannis had been correct. Stannis would be king; Robb needed to march home.

Only three kingdoms were left – the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North.

Sansa was aware of Baelish's plotting in the Vale. She could try to press his hand but with Catelyn still alive, he was unlikely to do anything as brazen as marrying Lysa. Which meant that Lysa would remain inert, her army locked away. Perhaps Sansa could expose her aunt for Jon Arryn's murder but without a proper handle on Robin Arryn, at best it would make the Vale unpredictable. If Robin knew Sansa had been the one to expose his mother, he'd side against the North. Even if Sansa managed to hide her own hand, the chances that Robin would side against them were still too high. No, the Vale needed a handler installed before it could be brought into play.

The Iron Islands–

Sansa's gut twisted painfully. Theon was there. He'd all but abandoned her and Robb, ignored her warnings of betrayal and desolation, and marched home. And the Iron Islands were currently attacking the North.

This was the crux of it. With the ironborn ravaging the North, Robb's support from the Northmen wouldn't last – maybe not even till Casterly Rock.

Theon had _asked_ her to write to him, hadn't he? Wasn't a Theon who _asked_ for advice already different from the Theon who had gone to Pyke in her last life? Desperately, she wished it.

_Everyone is your enemy; everyone is your friend._

If Theon were her enemy, the letter she'd sent warning Bran not to let more than half his men leave the castle and not to yield it to anyone – not even Theon – should prevent Theon's previous plan from succeeding. If he came up with some new terribleness, she'd have to deal with it as it developed. But as The Great Game went, Theon had never been a proper player. Sansa was worried about Margaery and Baelish and Robb's own errors, not Theon Greyjoy with one sword and one ship to his name.

If Theon were her friend…

Sansa stared down at the map, toying with possibilities.

Theon stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the handrail till his knuckles turned white. Slowly, resolving from fog into the stones of his childhood, his daydreams, loomed Pyke. Somehow, it seemed smaller _and_ more imposing than he expected. A grim air hung about the island, like a wake for one not yet dead.

"I could be your salt wife, you know," the captain's daughter said, sidling up to Theon against the rail. "Our ship has never carried the Heir to the whole Iron Islands, before."

"For the last time, no," Theon said, barely flicking his eyes from the distant castle.

The girl had a stupid look to her face. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared, would have taken her in the time it took to breathe, but he'd grown quite fond of clever girls. He'd grown quite fond of a _specific_ clever girl, if he were feeling honest, which he rarely was. One with hair as red as flame and blue eyes that caught the light and–

The captain's daughter took his arm. Theon shook her off. "Go and tell your father to send my things ashore," he said. "We've almost docked."

With a disappointed scowl back at him, she stalked across the deck, swinging her hips as she went. She was pretty enough, really, especially if she didn't smile her stupid smile. But he'd turned her down. Repeatedly.

"By the Drowned God," Theon muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I must be mad."

But his other hand traced the necklace sitting inside his pocket. He knew it wasn't madness that had stolen his wits.

The single horse the dockman had been able to procure was a pitiful thing, with scars for a plow harness dug into its side. Still, Theon rode it up the hill to the gates of Pyke, wondering if the returning sons in all the legends had ever felt as nervous or ill-prepared to greet their own family.

At the gate, a soldier with armor that barely fit stepped forward, spitting upon the ground. "State your business," he said, looking up at Theon with a wary squint.

Theon sat straighter in his saddle. "I'm Theon Greyjoy, Heir of the Iron Islands, come home to–"

The soldier gestured to the man working the other side of the gate. "Open it."

Theon frowned at them as the gate slowly creaked open. A common soldier had cut him off. _Him_ , Theon Greyjoy, here at Pyke! Maybe the man hadn't believed his claim. He'd show him. He'd be back, with his father at his side and point at the man that hadn't believed him–

And what? Stake him out on the beach as the tide came in? For _interrupting_? Would Robb, noble Robb ever have considered that? A flare of anger cropped up and Theon only barely shoved it aside. Theon wasn't Robb. He wasn't a Stark. He shouldn't have to be.

 _And Sansa?_ a little voice asked. _Would her opinion not matter, either?_ He shoved that voice aside, as well.

Finally, the gate stood open. Theon's horse skittered backward but he guided it calmly with his knees. _I bet I'm the only decent horseman on the entire island,_ he realized, annoyed that no one here would even know it.

"My family," Theon asked as his horse walked through the gate. "Are they home?"

The soldier squinted up at him. "Yer father is. Sister ain't."

So. Maybe he _had_ believed Theon's claim, after all. Theon didn't know how to make heads or tails of _that._

"Father."

"Nine years, is it?" At the far end of the darkened hall, Theon could barely make out Balon Greyjoy, sitting in his chair before the fire. "They took a frightened boy. What have they given back?"

Theon stepped closer, trying to appear confident. "A man. Your blood and your heir."

"We shall see. Stark had you longer than I did."

Theon swallowed. "Lord Stark is gone."

Balon turned to stare at his son. "And how do you feel about that?"

Theon said nothing. His hand clenched around the Lannister locket. How did he _feel_?

"Wolf got your tongue, boy?" Balon said.

"What's done is done," Theon replied.

Balon's smile held no pity. "Is it? Stark lost his head moons ago–" Theon couldn't hide his flinch. "–and the whelp gave you freedom to go whoring off across the kingdoms yet you went anywhere but here. What am I to make of _that_?"

"I'm here now," Theon replied, knowing it for the most inadequate answer he could have given. He didn't even need to hear his father's scoff to know it had been coming.

"To what purpose?" Balon asked, his pale eyes unflinching.

Theon swallowed. "You're attacking the North, you've taken Deepwood Motte–"

Balon raised an eyebrow. "And you're here to help? To use your knowledge of the North against your other family?"

Theon fought not to swallow again. Sansa had _warned_ him about Pyke, about his family… and he could feel himself a hairsbreadth from doing it all again.

He took his time forming the words, making sure he got them right. "There are other ways. _Better_ ways. Robb Stark offered us an alliance–"

Balon laughed. "So _that's_ why you came. The Stark boy's trained raven: his offer tied to your leg. Out with it, then!"

"They would be our allies!" Theon burst forth. "They would give us Casterly Rock, they would fight _at our side_ and you're throwing it all away!"

"Careful, boy," Balon replied. "I throw away nothing. We are ironborn. We take what is ours. You'd do well to remember that."

"Then take it!" Theon said, hating the frantic tinge to his voice. "Take Casterly Rock! Robb would attack by land as we attack by sea! It's a good plan! It's _my_ plan!"

"Is it?" Balon said, his eyes dancing in mockery. "One day back home and already you expect to direct my fleet?"

Theon hated the way a single look from his father made him falter. "I'm your son. Who else would lead the attack?"

"Your sister, Yara, earned command of 30 ships and brought me Deepwood Motte. You earned nothing and bring me an offer and a fool's promise."

Theon's hand tightened in his pocket, feeling the edges of the necklace dig into his palm. "Yara won't hold it," he said, feeling his anger rise. "The North will rise up and take it back. They'll never stop until they have."

"Good," Balon replied. "Then we'll stomp on their necks until we break them."

"They _won't_ break, not _ever_ when it comes to defending their homes. I know the North, Father, I lived with them! It's not too late to make peace, to–"

"What are our words?" Balon rose to his full height, staring down at his son. "Our words, boy."

"We do not sow," Theon replied.

"We do not sow. We are Ironborn. We are not subjects, we are not slaves, we do not plow the fields or toil in the mine. We take what is ours. Your time with the wolves has made you weak."

He started to turn away, to leave, and something within Theon broke. "You act as if I volunteered to go. You gave me away, if you remember! The day you bent the knee to Robert Baratheon, after he crushed you. Did he take what was yours, then?"

Balon's full-handed slap sent Theon reeling. He fell into the table. A pitcher clattered to the floor, a broken plate bit into his hand.

His father continued out the hall and Theon couldn't stop. "You gave me away! Your boy, your last boy! You gave me away like I was some dog you didn't want anymore! And now you curse me because I've come home!"

Balon turned. "You _are_ a dog, a cowardly mutt dreaming it could be a wolf. There is no kraken in you. Get vengeance for your fallen brothers, become the wrath of the sea. Rise up or go back to your kennel and heel for your masters."

His father left. The door slammed shut behind him.

The stone walls of Theon's old bedroom threatened to close in all around him. He stared out the window, letting the steady rhythm of the waves crashing against the castle below wash over him. This used to be where he entertained dreams of being a fearsome reaver out of legend, setting fire to the entire coast, reveling as the greenlanders cowered.

 _The room is too small_ , he insisted on thinking, refusing to acknowledge that he was the one who had gotten bigger.

His father and sister were doing exactly what Theon had always dreamed of and he had never felt less proud.

Theon dropped his head into his hands, refusing the calming sight of the waves. His family had taken Lord Glover's home. They'd taken Moat Cailin, intending to cut off any reinforcements from Robb. It wouldn't work. Every last man, woman, and boy left in the North would rise up against the ironborn – with sticks, if they had to. The North was not the Riverlands, to be cowed by whichever lord won their petty conquests. They were the blood of the First Men. They bowed to no one but Starks and dragonfire – and the latter they had regretted for centuries.

Theon thought of his father, sounding so _proud_ of his petty accomplishments. _Don't take a castle you can't keep,_ Sansa had once told Theon _._ But wasn't that exactly what his father was doing, only instead of with Winterfell, with the entire North?

He didn't need Sansa's knowledge to tell him the Northerners wouldn't stand for it, no matter how many lives it took. No one stood against the North on their own territory.

Besides, if the ironborn had successfully conquered the North the last time around, Theon was pretty sure Sansa would have mentioned it.

 _Sansa_.

Cursing himself, Theon flung open his door, practically running down the halls of Pyke. It had been a long time since he last visited the maester but he remembered the way. The old man's grim face cracked briefly with surprise at his guest, before settling back into its perpetual distaste.

"Are there any letters for me?" Theon asked, without a greeting.

Grumbling under his breath, the maester stood, all-too-slowly hobbling over to the stack of parchments on the edge of his desk and rifling through them. "This arrived before you did," he said. "From a Winafrid Snow. A dedicated Northern paramour, to send ravens delivering her poetry."

It was meant as an insult, of course, as everything was on Pyke. Theon had never cared less. He snatched the parchment away before the maester could finish offering it.

_Dearest, loveliest Theon,_

_I waste away with loneliness, missing you. I stare out to the sea and think of you, and the fisherman to whom you spoke. I think of all the amusing tales I used to tell you and have so many more that I wish to say._

_My friend to whom you introduced the fisherman once told me a story you might find amusing. In his father's house, my friend was looked_ down _upon. So, the only responsibility he was allowed was tending to the privies. Now, if it were a large house, the privy would have had miles upon miles of tunnels and passageways. Instead, living in the hovel my friend did, he could only dig the privy hole wider. So wide, in fact, that a man could have crawled through. Forgive my crassness, but if the shit had been water, one could have sailed an entire boat right up to it and climbed inside!_

_What a laugh, spending that much effort on a privy. I hope you're laughing, where you are._

_It must be wonderful, finally being away from those horrid, awful Starks. I never liked that red-haired girl. Far too fond of her own opinions. Beware of the opinions of those around you. Keep your own counsel and choose those who share it wisely. The opinions of the vicious and small minded are hard to ignore if you give them leave to speak. Do not fear anyone's judgment but the gods', your own, and those whom you deem clever. Or, if I may be fully impudent, those you deem a lunatic._

_Your lunatic,_

_Winafrid_

"A strange girl," the maester snorted. "Calling herself 'lunatic' as an endearment. Does it work on you, I wonder?"

Anger clenched Theon's hands into fists. "You read my letter?"

"Of course!" the maester laughed. "A letter from a bastard girl to the Greyjoy son who hadn't been home in a decade? Lord Balon himself read your little letter!"

Theon's entire vision drifted into red. "What did he say?" He didn't know if he was more worried about the code being cracked or his affections being found out or simply embarrassed at yet _another_ way he was being treated as less than his father's heir.

The maester patted Theon's cheek. Theon flinched away. "He said it was time _one_ of his children took a salt wife."

Bile rose in Theon's throat. A salt wife? _Sansa?_ He couldn't think of a less fitting thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Theon could only stalk off, slamming the door to his room behind him as he read through the letter in private again and again. He blotted out his rage at his uselessness, soaking up her words.

If his letter to Sansa had established Davos as the fisherman, it would make her mutual friend Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. One who was certainly looked _down_ on, in case he hadn't been sure. Which made Tyrion's father's house far from the hovel described, but instead… Casterly Rock. If Theon was interpreting her letter correctly, there was a secret way inside it – through the miles and miles of tunnels and passageways that comprised the sewer. A disgusting method, to be sure, but if _a boat could be sailed right up to it…!_

The Greyjoys could take Casterly Rock. They could take it _easily_.

The rest of the letter made less sense to him but he studied it no less thoroughly. He could guess that her wish that he was laughing could be an inquiry after his wellbeing, but he couldn't be sure. Theon had not laughed a single time since he'd come to Pyke. If it were truly her wish, she'd be sorely disappointed. _He_ was sorely disappointed.

Her advice on opinions and judgement he couldn't tie to any specific event. Perhaps she had meant them more generally anyway, as their actions had already shifted the ground on which he tread. Of course he would keep his own counsel. Who here even _wanted_ to share it, anyway?

But there was one part, not even intentionally meant by Sansa that kept snagging his mind, drawing it back until he felt the letters themselves had worn grooves in his eyes. _Those horrid, awful Starks_. Theon traced the ink with his thumb. He _missed_ the Starks. He missed his captors; missed them terribly. Robb, with his affable grin, even Catelyn, with her ever-disapproving looks in his direction. Occasionally, he'd catch amusement hiding behind her disapproval, even at his worst antics. He remembered her embrace when he'd brought Sansa back, how she'd claimed him as a better brother to Sansa than her darling Robb.

And of course, _Sansa_. The most beautiful girl he'd ever known, the cleverest, the kindest – and she'd included _him_ in her own counsel. Not even Robb knew her secret. Not her mother. Around them, she still spoke in riddles and lies about spymasters. To Theon, she had told the absolute, lunatic truth.

Shame flooded through him that he'd been _considering_ joining his father against the North. The cut on his hand still stung. He missed his father's love. He missed his affection, his approval–

Theon swallowed. He was _still_ lying to himself. He remembered the truth now, in the hazy memories of a child, but the emotions no less fierce. He remembered Balon's rages, his impossible expectations and endless criticisms. He remembered how fiercely he'd longed for his father to notice him, to love him… and he couldn't remember ever receiving it.

No, when he thought of missing a father's love, it was not Balon he pictured. He remembered sitting before a roaring fire, listening to Ned's voice as he calmly talked Theon through the proper care of his armor. He remembered Ned's laugh when Theon had thrown Robb into the dirt in the sparring ring. "Good, Theon!" Ned had called out, grinning. "Keep it up and he may get some sense knocked into him, yet!"

He remembered soon after he'd first arrived, huddling into the wall of the cold stone castle, his shoulders jerking sharply each time he sniffled.

" _There_ you are," Ned said softly, crouching down beside the boy. "Half the castle's been out looking for you. Did one of the boys hurt you? Did they say something?"

Theon shook his head, burying it deeper under his crossed arms.

"What is it, then?"

Theon didn't reply, simply sat in his huddle trying to rein in his sobs. Ned never moved, never made an impatient sound. He just waited next to the pathetic boy as if he had all the time in the world and not an entire kingdom waiting at his beck and call.

"I…" Theon finally managed. "I _miss_ them. My family. My mother. Will I ever–" He choked back another sob. "Will I ever get to see them again?"

"Of course you will, lad," Ned said, drawing Theon into his chest. With his face pressed against Ned's leather tunic, Theon only sobbed harder. "There's no shame in missing your family. It would be a shame if you _didn't_. It'd mean you didn't love them. Go on, let it out."

True to his word, Ned waited with Theon as he cried. Catelyn would have rubbed circles on his back, would have made cooing, motherly noises, but Ned simply sat, a calm, unshakeable, constant presence. Castles could fall and oceans rise and Theon knew with a certainty deep in his bones that if he were still crying, Ned would still be sitting next to him.

When Theon's tears finally slowed, Ned stood, offering a hand down to the boy. "When you see your family again, you can tell them all about the North. I heard Ser Rodrik took you and the boys out tracking in the snow, last week. He says you're doing quite well."

Theon wrapped his fingers around Ned's larger ones, following him down the hallway of Winterfell. A warmth surged inside the boy that not even the strongest Northern cold could touch.

Almost a decade later, Theon sat in his room at Pyke missing the exact opposite family. His fingers traced their usual circuit over the lion in Sansa's necklace. With a sudden burst of courage, Theon opened it.

Ned sat inside. He smiled up at Theon, that rare smile bordering on a laugh that he reserved only for his family at his fondest. It wasn't a perfect likeness, but it didn't matter. It was Ned.

"I'm sorry," Theon whispered to it, feeling the traitor tears roll down his cheeks. He scrubbed them away before they could fall on the painting. "I'm sorry I didn't do more. I'm sorry I couldn't protect your lands from my own kin."

If someone had asked him yesterday, Theon would have said he had one sister and two dead brothers. If someone asked him today, his count would be considerably higher.

"But I'm a Greyjoy," Theon whispered hopelessly down at Ned. "I can't just abandon my own blood."

Theon's letter was not the only correspondence that left the Stark camp penned in that same girlish hand.

The raven bearing the second letter had a much longer journey, through forests and stormy skies and at last, across sands so vast they stretched like oceans.

A maester gently untied the scroll from the raven's leg. Though he noted the blank seal with surprise, topped only by his surprise at the raven's place of origin, his even steps carried the message up the long, winding stair of the Tower of the Sun. In a sitting room brightly lit by the fading light, with a breeze wafting the gauzy curtains away from patterned windows, sat the named recipient of that most curious letter.

"My prince," the maester said, bowing as he extended the scrap of paper. "A letter from Riverrun."

"Riverrun?" Oberyn Martell said with a grimace, his curious fingers slitting the seal and unrolling it. "We've no interests that far north."

The maester made a hum of agreement. By all accounts, he should have delivered the letter and left, but he stayed, hoping Oberyn wouldn't notice the breach in etiquette. An unexpected, unsigned raven from that distance brought more curiosity than any maester worth his chain could bear.

Oberyn's eyes flicked through the message. He paused. Then, slowly, he read it again. Oberyn laughed. A lazy grin followed his laugh, spreading across his face as he handed back the paper. "What do you make of this?"

_Prince Oberyn Martell,_

_The Wolves march for justice, but they are not the only ones who seek it. A Mountain stands in our way, a Mountain who is not ours to kill. The Lions are ours. Though, as they rule the Mountains, a Wolf could be inclined to share a kill among friends._

It was an easy code to break, so much so that calling it one at all seemed an insult to codes. Worse yet, it was unsigned. Not the Young Wolf, not his mother, not even his bannermen lay claim to this strange message. The maester looked up from the letter. "What are you going to do, my prince?"

Oberyn was still grinning. "It seems Dorne has friends in the North – and a Mountain to level."


End file.
